


Possession

by illwick



Series: Unwind [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Bondage, Bottom!Sherlock, Breathplay, Comeplay, Coming Untouched, Dirty Talk, Dog Tags, Dom!John, Dominance, Double Penetration, Dry Humping, Edgeplay, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Fisting, GreedySherlock, Gun Kink, Gunplay, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Kink Negotiation, Kitchen Sex, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mirror Sex, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, Peril, Possessive Behavior, Power Dynamics, Praise Kink, Prostate Massage, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Safe Sane and Consensual, Spanking, Submission, Territorial!John, Vibrators, Violent Sex, Virginity Kink, Voyeurism, Wet & Messy, bratty!Sherlock, sub!Sherlock, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 19:23:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 57,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13620072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwick/pseuds/illwick
Summary: John Watson is a jealous man.Sherlock Holmes doesn't mind.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaand we're back! If you're new to this series, in this particular work I don't outline the pre-negotiated terms of their D/S relationship. If you would like more backstory, it's all detailed in the earlier installments of this series. If you just want to dig right in, here's the gist: Everything they do is safe, sane, consensual, and thoroughly pre-negotiated.

A decade ago, if anyone had told Sherlock Holmes that he would one day willing participate in a “Date Night,” he’d have told them, in no uncertain terms, to toss off. Date Nights were for boring, mundane, heterosexual couples, the sex-starved, middle-class, work-a-day wankers whose 9-to-5s and boarish offspring and relentless conformity to societal demands prohibited them from pursuing their desires.

And Sherlock Holmes was borderline hedonistic in hs pursuit of his desires. Despite his professed disdain for all corporeal pleasures, he indulged in many with gusto: Dressing gowns of the finest silk. Bedsheets of the softest Egyptian cotton. Bespoke suits from high-end tailors. The finest cocaine his trust fund money could buy. And he could not picture a world in which indulgence of his own desires was not the be-all, end-all of his _raison-d’etre._

My, what a difference ten years could make.

Because lo and behold, here he was, fussing with his hair in the wardrobe mirror and checking to make sure his (or rather, John’s) favourite purple shirt still fit him like a glove (it did, despite John feeding him up on a consistent basis; he attributes his own lack of weight gain to the rather aerobic addition of regular sex to his routine, so he imagines the net caloric intake must be a wash). Mrs. Hudson will be here any moment to pick up Rosie so that he and John could finally-- _finally--_ have an evening to themselves; an actual Date Night.

Christ. He was just as bad as the the proper grown-ups he’d once disdained.

Yet he couldn’t be arsed to care.

Because ten years ago, despite his formidable analytic skills and virtuosic intelligence, he never could have predicted John Watson.

John Watson, who had revolutionised his life so completely that Sherlock is all but a stranger to his former self. John Watson, who has given Sherlock _everything_ he’d never thought he could have: a lover, a home, a family.

And despite the fact that part of having a family means he hasn’t gotten properly laid in 21 days, 16 hours, and 12 minutes, Sherlock supposes that’s the price one pays for the people that they love.

_Sentiment._

“Yoo-hoo! Sherlock! Are you decent?” Mrs. Hudson’s dulcet tones echo up the stairwell, accompanied by her uneven gait.

“Yes, Hudders, door’s open!”

He gives his hair one last forlorn once-over (the weather had been inexcusably damp, and despite his best efforts, his curls look more disheveled than normal) and turns to make his way down the hall.

He finds Mrs. Hudson settling next to Rosie on her blanket, where she’d been engaged in an elaborate game of her own invention, involving all of her blocks, two puzzles, and every stuffed animal she owned.

“Now, there’s my sweet Rose! Just what are you up to?”

Rosie grins at Mrs. Hudson and squeals and points and babbles excitedly. Mrs. Hudson looks on indulgently, feigning comprehension of the game’s rules. Explanation concluded, Rosie beams back and forth between Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock, and Sherlock can’t help but flash her a smile.

“Eloquently put, Rosie. I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

Mrs. Hudson turns to look at him, and her expression softens. “Oh, look at you, all dolled up and handsome. John will be seeing stars.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but internally preens a bit. “Nonsense, Mrs. H, I’ve just freshened up a bit. Nothing special.”

“Sure, dear. Whatever you say.” She raises her eyebrows and shoots Rosie a conspiratorial wink. Rosie giggles. Sherlock sighs, feigning exasperation, but he’s secretly quite pleased that his efforts seem to have paid off.

“So, I’m headed out. John and I are meeting at the restaurant. We should be back by nine or so, but I imagine we’ll be a bit indisposed for several hours after we arrive home. You’re alright to have Rosie sleep in her portable crib in your flat tonight?”

“Of course, dear, don’t fret about it.”

Sherlock hesitates, feeling suddenly compelled to elaborate, just in case Mrs. Hudson was confused by the nature of his request. “Alright. It’s best Rosie stays downstairs for the duration of the night, because I imagine John and I will be having quite a lot of sex. The nursery isn’t soundproof and we’ll not have the baby monitor on, so--”

“Sherlock, dear.” Mrs. Hudson holds up her hand. “That all sounds lovely, but believe me, it’s implied. You needn’t explain further.”

“Oh. Alright.” Sherlock shrugs. He still hasn’t quite grasped the norms of when it’s acceptable to address sex and when it’s not, but he’s relieved Mrs. Hudson seems to understand the situation either way.

He makes his way over to plop a fond kiss in Rosie’s ringlets. “You be good, you.” Rosie smiles up at him, and Sherlock’s heart does that strange, annoying thing it does whenever he observes Rosie being particularly endearing.

He grabs his Belstaff from its hook by the door and goes to take his leave.

“There’s brandy in the cupboard under the sink, Mrs. H. As if you didn’t already know.”

“Ta, love.”

“But not until after Rosie’s asleep.”

“For Heaven’s sake, Sherlock, stop pretending you’re the responsible one here! And don’t keep that man of yours waiting! Go on, shoo!”

Sherlock is unsurprised to find John already seated at their table. Though Sherlock had picked the restaurant and made the reservation (at John’s insistence), John’s militaristic devotion to timeliness meant Sherlock was always second to arrive, but he can’t say he minds; arriving second means he has a few priceless moments with which to observe John Watson unimpaired.

And tonight, John is perfect. He always is, but something about the way he looks in the candlelight, his eyes impossibly blue even from this distance, fills Sherlock with a potent pang of _want._ He’s clearly had a long day at the surgery: His hair is disheveled and his trousers are barely creased at the hip, indicating he’d been on his feet most of the day. But he’s also put on a clean shirt, fresh tie, and a jacket, and it quirks the corners of Sherlock’s mouth to imagine John at his office, primping to impress him.

As if John couldn’t have him any time he wanted.

As if Sherlock weren’t already _his._

The cool metal of John’s dog tags feels suddenly noticeable against the flushed skin of Sherlock’s chest.

Well then.

Maybe there was something to this “Date Night” thing, after all.

Sherlock approaches the table with as much nonchalance as he can muster. John breaks into a rather telling grin, which Sherlock can’t help but return.

“Hello there, stranger.”

“Hello, John.”

“Fancy meeting you here.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes good naturedly; John loved using cheesy pickup lines on him whenever the opportunity presented itself, and Sherlock was obligated by his better sense to pretend to hate it. “For God’s sake, John, can we not--”

But his diatribe is rudely interrupted by the arrival of their waiter.

“Good evening, gentlemen.” The man’s accent is French. Thick. Loire Valley region. Presumably an aspiring sommelier, in London to diversify his credentials after having a go (and failing) in Paris, slumming here as a waiter in the hopes of--

“We have some exquisite specials this evening.”

Sherlock’s eyes continue to lock with John’s as he tunes out the waiter’s over-rehearsed spiel. Christ, Sherlock knows he’s seen John every day for the past three weeks, but they’d been like ships passing in the night: Sherlock was working four cases for private clients (all of the cases were inexcusably dull, no need for John’s assistance), and John had been working overtime at the surgery while they interviewed potential matches for a newly-vacated position there. That meant they were both working full-time, and between their jobs and Rosie, there’d been no time whatsoever for any extracurricular fun.

So here and now, their gazes meeting over the understated linen tablecloth in the dim candlelight, Sherlock feels like he’s truly seeing John for the first time in weeks. 

It’s making him _ravenous._

And not for whatever Thai-inspired prawn dish the waiter is describing.

John seems to be in a similar state. He’s running his tongue absentmindedly over his upper lip as his eyes flicker from Sherlock’s eyes to his mouth, his expression nothing short of predatory. He pauses only to drain the tail end of his vodka soda before reverting his gaze back to Sherlock, lower this time-- clearly admiring the way the silver chain of his dog tags looks hanging around Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock had intentionally left an additional button open for this explicit purpose, and he cranes his neck subtly to show it off, sinking his teeth coyly into his bottom lip as he does so.

Sherlock is suddenly quite unsure how they’ll make it through dinner at all. The air around them feels like it’s crackling with electricity.

But the moment is broken as John opens his mouth to speak. His words seem muddled, as if underwater, and Sherlock internally shakes himself, willing himself to _focus._

“...another vodka soda. And for you?”

Sherlock tunes in just in time to see John blinking at him expectantly, an expression of abject innocence plastered across his face. Smug wanker.

“I’ll have… um, wine. Wine would be...good.” Sherlock’s fairly certain his hard drive is offline.

“Excellent, monsieur. Would you be interested in a suggestion?” The waiter’s tone is cloyingly appeasing. Sherlock grits his teeth and internally calculates the odds of convincing John that a quickie in the toilets would be an appropriate course of action.

“Yes, I’d be open to a suggestion. I’m--”

Sherlock finally tears his eyes away from John in a hapless attempt to focus on the waiter, but he’s caught entirely off-guard.

Because the waiter is _gorgeous._

And staring back at him as if he’s something to eat.

Sherlock swallows.

This isn’t the first time this has happened. No, this isn’t the first time that Sherlock has dragged John to some obscenely overpriced establishment only to have the wait staff fawn over Sherlock while treating John like a random passerby who just so happened to drift in on Sherlock’s coattails. This isn’t the first time that Sherlock’s been ogled by another man in full view of John.

But it’s the first time since they’ve had A Talk about it.

A few weeks back, while out on a case, a potential source had made a very obvious pass at Sherlock. And while Sherlock had politely rebuffed him (well, it had been polite in his opinion-- John had still confessed to catching the poor bloke crying in the toilets afterwards), it had led to a rather interesting conversation with John after the customary session of _unwinding_ they’d shared after the case had concluded.

“I wouldn’t mind, you know.” Sherlock had murmured into the darkness during their post-coital bliss, sore and bruised from the bondage John had subjected him to.

“Mind what?” John had sounded predictably confused; usually after a post-case session, Sherlock fell fast asleep almost immediately. Post-mortem conversations about the sex they’d just had were generally not part of the routine.

“If you got jealous. Possessive. Made me pay for attracting that sort of attention. I know you want to.”

John had been quiet for a very long time. Long enough that Sherlock had almost started to wonder if he’d overstepped. He knew John disliked his own possessive streak, but Sherlock found it impossibly arousing; it seemed a missed opportunity to not at least seek a middle ground.

Finally, John spoke. “Sherlock, I… I don’t know how to say this so that you’ll understand. I really don’t. But my… my possessive side, that’s something… that’s something I’ve been working hard to get rid of, not to encourage. It’s not a healthy thing to have in a relationship. It’s not good for me to want to control another person like that.”

Sherlock had chewed on his bottom lip, turning John’s words over in his mind. How could it be wrong for John to want something, if Sherlock wanted it too?

Eventually, he formulated a response. When he spoke, he took care to keep his tone even, undemanding. “What if… what if you only did it when I asked you to?”

“What?” John sounded perplexed.

“Similar to the way I ask you to help me exorcise the demons from my past. What if you only acted possessive if I asked it of you, based on the situation? Verbal consent, and all that? You’re always going on about it...”

John had heaved a heavy sigh. “I don’t know, Sherlock. I don’t know. There’s not much of a line between _acting_ possessive and _feeling_ possessive, and I’m afraid if I actually become possessive, it’ll add a toxic dimension to what we have here. Not only that, but I’m not sure it’s something I can turn on and off like a switch. With most of my past relationships…” (Sherlock internally flinched. He hated knowing John has had countless others before him, even though he _knows_ it’s ridiculous to fault him that.) “...With my past relationships, my possessive streak has occasionally gotten the better of me, and it pretty much ruined everything. I can’t let that happen here. Not with us. Not with you.”

That had given Sherlock pause. Of course it had. Because of all the things Sherlock Holmes loved about John Watson, the fact that John let Sherlock have complete, total control over his personal autonomy was one of the things Sherlock treasured most.

But still.

John’s possessive streak turned him on. The way John glared daggers at the men and women who dared give Sherlock that look like they were undressing him with their eyes; God, it made Sherlock hard just thinking about it. Something about having been the unwitting subject of appraising glances and unwanted advances his whole life made John’s indignance on his behalf endlessly appealing.

There was no use in hiding that.

And he wasn’t ready to give up on a compromise.

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“I’d like to try. I’d like to test our boundaries on this, unless it’s an absolute hard limit for you. I think… I think it might be important.”

There was a long pause. The stillness rang in the dark.

“Alright. Alright, Sherlock. If you think it’s important.”

And so now, here they were, at the first opportunity to test this dynamic. The waiter was interested in Sherlock, that much was obvious. The question was what to do next.

Sherlock proceeds with caution.

He peers up at the waiter from beneath lowered lashes and gives his bottom lip a pluck with his teeth. “I’m… as a matter of fact, I’m a bit lost. Your wine list is… extensive. I could use some _professional_ guidance.”

And _oh,_ that’s done it. The waiter’s gaze goes from _calculating_ to downright _wolfish._ His warm caramel eyes ignite against his ebony skin, and despite himself, Sherlock feels a shiver run down his spine, imagining the things this stranger could do for him.

“In that case, monsieur, allow be to be at your service.”

It’s almost too easy. The waiter implores Sherlock with a series of questions about his likes, his dislikes, his preferences. It’s all under the guise of being to do with wine, but by the time the waiter is is asking Sherlock if prefers a _‘bold, fruit-forward finish,’_ Sherlock’s beginning to wonder if he’s taken it a bit far.

Sherlock takes a deep breath, steadying himself. He needs to play this just right if he’s going to get what he wants.

“You know, I’m rather overwhelmed. I think I’ll defer entirely to your judgement.”

And _there,_ that’s sealed the deal. The waiter beams back at him, a satisfied look on his face as he nods and takes his leave.

“Very well, monsieur. I look forward to servicing you.” He turns on his heel, and is gone.

Sherlock reverts his gaze back to John.

John meets it. He pokes at the ice in his empty glass with his cocktail straw.

Sherlock speaks first. “So.” He’s not sure what else to say.

John swills the ice in his glass absently. “So.”

Sherlock forces himself to take the initiative. “So are you… are you cross with me?”

John stares evenly back at him. “Cross with you? _Darling,_ whatever for?”

And, oh, yes, that’s it, _right there._ The word ‘darling’ send a shiver down Sherlock’s spine. John only calls him ‘darling’ when they’re _unwinding_ and Sherlock is fighting John’s dominance, refusing to submit. The fact he’s used it here means he’s ready to engage in a power exchange. Sherlock plays expertly back into his hands.

He puts on his most demure expression. “John, I’m afraid I’ve been a bit... Familiar with the waiter.”

John places his glass back on the table and shrugs, seemingly impassive. “That’s hardly my concern.” Sherlock’s eyes are drawn to where John’s shoulders are flexing beneath his sport coat. He’s lying, doing his best to play it coy, but he’s anything but unaffected by Sherlock’s actions.

Sherlock purses his lips, disguising a smile. “So you won’t… punish me?”

John leans back in his chair. A cool, calculating smile spreads across his face, the source of which Sherlock can’t entirely discern. “Well, darling, I suppose that depends.”

Sherlock swallows. He’s getting hard in his trousers, John’s display of nonchalance igniting an innate desire to _please_ deep within him. “Depends on what?”

John cocks his head casually and readjusts the napkin in his lap. “On whether you get his number before we go home.”

And oh _God,_ of all the challenges John has ever set for him, this one lights up Sherlock like wildfire.

John is complying.

John wants this.

John is going to let Sherlock seduce another man and then take him home and punish him for his transgression.

Sherlock is so hard he can’t see.

But he forces himself to remain in control.

After all, this is still a game.

And the game is on.

The waiter’s name is Samuel. He is indeed from the Loire Valley. He brings Sherlock three glasses of wine, and watches through hooded eyes as Sherlock samples them all, making a bit of a show of the way his lips caress the glass. They communicate through less-than-vague innuendos, half in English, half in French. John looks on, passive, analytical, unruffled.

By the time Samuel is bringing Sherlock and John a crème brûlée to share, Sherlock is nearly out of his mind with the heady power trip of it all. Samuel locks eyes with him as he places it on the table with a flourish. John commands his gaze as he feeds Sherlock the first bite.

But all too soon, the time is up. John pays the bill and Samuel processes it without the slightest indication of ulterior motives. And then John is rising from his seat and Sherlock is left feeling slightly unmoored.

“Let’s take a cab, it’s starting to drizzle. Sherlock?” John coaxes Sherlock from his chair, and Sherlock can’t help but glance around wildly. Samuel seems to have disappeared completely, and John’s back to calling him ‘Sherlock’. This is not going as planned.

Something akin to disappointment claws at the back of Sherlock’s throat. Perhaps Samuel was only being flirtatious in the hopes of getting a big tip? After all, it would have been rather audacious to proposition Sherlock in the presence of a man who was clearly his date, if not his significant other. Perhaps somehow Sherlock had missed all the signs? Unusual, most unusual, he must be off his game…

“Very well, John.” Sherlock feels lost and a little ashamed as John helps him with his coat.

They make their way outside, and John hazards a sympathetic glance in Sherlock’s direction. When he speaks, his tone is cloyingly condescending. “It’s alright. You’ll get him next time.”

Oh, fuck _that_. Sherlock Holmes has never settled for less than exactly what he wanted, and he’s not about to start settling tonight.

“Oh, John, I’ve just realised I’ve left my scarf at the table. If you get a cab, can you hold it?”

John’s eyes gleam in amusement. It’s a last-ditch effort on Sherlock’s part, of course (he hadn’t even worn his scarf tonight, it was unseasonably warm), but John just nods. He knows Sherlock’s not so easily beat.

“Of course, love. Go on, now.”

And with that, Sherlock spins and retreats to the restaurant.

He finds Samuel loitering in the back alley on break. His posture indicates he’s craving a cigarette but fighting the impulse, scrolling through his phone instead. Sherlock can sympathise.

Samuel’s eyes widen as he processes Sherlock’s approach, and he stands to attention.

“Monsieur! May I help you?”

“Perhaps, Samuel.” Sherlock applies his best ‘distressed’ expression. “I seem to have lost my scarf. Was it left at the table, by any chance?”

Samuel’s eyes are bright and eager. “Allow me to check, monsieur.” And with that, he’s off, and Sherlock leans unsteadily against the wall to wait.

Moments later, Samuel reemerges. “Désolé, monsieur, but no luck. Perhaps it was discarded at home?”

“Yes, perhaps, Samuel. Thank you for all of your help.” Sherlock pulls himself to his full height and flips his coat collar up, just the way he knows drives John mad. He turns to go, his movements smooth and calculated.

“...Monsieur?”

“Yes?” Sherlock spins to find himself inches from Samuel’s amber-bright eyes, framed by dark, sultry lashes.

“I was wondering if… if perhaps sometime I could interest you in a drink. Perhaps some more wine.”

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow. “Wine?”

And then Samuel leans in. Close. Too close. His lips graze Sherlock’s earlobe as he laughs, the sound chocolatey-smooth and at ease. “To be honest, monsieur, I would suck you off in this alley this minute if I thought perhaps your boyfriend would not object.”

Sherlock tilts his head to the side, fighting to keep his head clear. Samuel’s voice is doing things to him, making him feel… things he _shouldn’t,_ things he _mustn’t,_ things John would dislike very much indeed. 

Samuel’s lips press gently against the exposed skin at Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock heaves a shuddering sigh.

“Oh, Samuel. I think I’d enjoy your company very much indeed.” 

“Is that so, monsieur?” Samuel tilts his head to the other side to press a kiss against the base of Sherlock’s neck.

“Give me your number. I’ll call you.”

And with that, Samuel pulls back, reaches into his pocket, and fishes out his order pad. He jots down a note and stuffs it into Sherlock’s lapel pocket. “I hope to hear from you soon, monsieur.”

Sherlock gives him a wink and a smile before jogging off down the alley.

He meats John at the sidewalk out front, John having just procured a cab.

“Any luck with the scarf?”

“Sadly, no. Must’ve left it at home.”

John gives him a curt nod,and with that, they retreat from the rain into the waiting taxi.

Sherlock is nearly vibrating with delight. He manages to wait three whole minutes before reaching into his lapel and handing John the piece of paper, a triumphant smirk spreading across his face.

John unfolds it, and his eyes rake over the digits scrawled out in Samuel’s hasty hand.

He crumples it up, rolls down the window, and tosses it out.

Then settles back into his seat, entirely unperturbed.

Sherlock blinks rapidly. Surely John would have more of a reaction than _this?_ He’d thought John would dominate him now, push him over and climb on top of him and rut against him until Sherlock was begging for mercy--

John’s hand reaches up to close around the back of Sherlock’s neck.

It’s dark in the back of the taxi, and the steady rain outside paints the windows into stained glass streaked with light. 

John’s expression is unreadable. His fingers tighten.

And then Sherlock hears it: John’s other hand is fumbling with his own fly. Sherlock’s eyes are riveted to John’s lap, where Sherlock can barely make out the outline of John’s flushed, erect cock as he pulls it from his trousers.

Sherlock issues a quiet whimper.

Then John firmly guides Sherlock’s head to his lap. Sherlock opens his mouth, and swallows him down. John’s fingers migrate from the back of Sherlock’s neck to the curls at his nape, where they tangle into them and then _pull,_ locking Sherlock firmly into place.

This isn’t the first time Sherlock’s given a man head in the back of a taxi, but it’s certainly the strangest. In the past, he’d always been two sheets to the wind, and his partners had been in a similar state. They always put on a bit of a show of it, thrusting up into his mouth and cursing colourfully, demanding the cabbies keep their eyes on the road while secretly delighting as they snuck jealous glances.

But John is different. He’s utterly silent and completely passive. He doesn’t make a sound, he doesn’t look down, he simply keeps his eyes locked on something just beyond the rain-spattered plane of the window. The only indication he’s registering Sherlock’s attentions at all is that his fingers twist violently in Sherlock’s hair, controlling his pace, then holding him down brutally while Sherlock struggles to swallow around his length. The few times Sherlock is able to catch a glimpse of John’s face at all (as he sucks open-mouthed kisses up the length of John’s shaft), John looks frankly _bored._

Sherlock can’t recall having ever been so desperately aroused.

He sucks and laves and swallows enthusiastically, certain that his next move will bring some sign of affirmation from John. But John simply stares out the window as if he couldn’t care less.

Sherlock lets out a whine of frustration and sucks John down the back of his throat.

John comes.

There’s no ceremony to it, and no warning; Sherlock sputters initially but manages to convince his throat to swallow a majority of John’s release, the excess leaking obscenely from the corners of his mouth. He works John over with firm, steady suction until the grip on his hair releases, and John pulls him roughly upright before discarding him back on the opposite side of the cab.

Sherlock is gasping and shaking with desire, his head spinning and his cock so hard he’s nearly certain he’s going to come in his pants.

John simply tucks his spent prick back into his trousers, fastens his belt, and licks his lips. 

His eyes never leave the window.

The rest of the ride back to Baker Street is completely silent. Sherlock’s cheeks feel distinctly overheated and his trousers are uncomfortably tight, but he follows John’s lead; it’s clear John has already taken full control of this scenario, and Sherlock doesn’t dare do anything to displease him.

They pull to a stop after what feels like an interminable length of time, and Sherlock throws open the door of the cab to immerse himself in the cool air, praying it will somehow calm his jangling nerves. He bounds to the front door and rummages frantically through his pockets for his keys; John will surely take care of the fare, and Sherlock simply can’t wait a moment longer to get him upstairs.

He takes the stairs two at a time, throws open the door to the flat, sheds his Belstaff in record time, and turns to face the door before dropping to his knees in the middle of the sitting room.

When John _finally_ appears in the doorframe (Christ, Sherlock could swear he was moving half-speed on purpose), he barely reacts to finding Sherlock in his position of supplication. He simply blinks twice, raises his eyebrows, then sheds his own coat, an impassive expression on his face. Then he walks straight past Sherlock and into the kitchen, where he begins rummaging through the cupboard.

Sherlock lets out an indignant huff. Why the hell was John ignoring him, when he was _here,_ being _good,_ kneeling and _submitting_ like a proper Sub, ready to obey his every command? The neglect is _maddening,_ he can’t take it a moment longer. “John!”

The moment the word leaves his lips, he regrets it. The change in John’s demeanor is instantaneous: His spine jerks ramrod straight, his shoulders pull back, and as he turns slowly to meet Sherlock’s eyes, a full-body shiver creeps its way through every nerve in Sherlock’s body. He quivers in anticipation.

“Yes, _darling?”_

Sherlock literally can’t stop shaking, both from apprehension and from the all-consuming _want_ coursing through his veins; he finds he doesn’t much care about his cock (which is still throbbing resolutely in his trousers), he just wants John to _pay attention to him._

Sherlock opens his mouth. His tongue feels unnaturally dry.

“I… I…”

John’s gaze is leveling. He’s staring at Sherlock dispassionately, as though he couldn’t care less that his lover is kneeling in the middle of their sitting room, ready for whatever punishment he deigns to dish out.

John raises his eyebrows. “What’s that, darling? I can’t hear you.”

“I, um… I… want you to. Um, pay attention to me.”

John purses his lips. “Sherlock, honestly, you’re better than this.”

“I… what?”

“All those brilliant powers of deduction you’re constantly bragging about, and yet your astute assessment of the current situation is that I’m going to let our date night end with you kneeling in the middle of the sitting room and, what, me fannying off to bed and leaving you there?”

Sherlock feels quite stupid. “I… um, I dunno…”

“You don’t know.” John’s voice is strangely icy, and Sherlock shivers harder.

“I… John, I’m sorry.”

John walks over towards him, his steps measured and deliberate. He stops mere inches away, glaring down imposingly. “Here’s the deal, _darling._ When I’m dominating you, you’re doing what _I_ want. You don’t have a say in any of this. You want to kneel in the middle of the sitting room floor while you await your instructions? Fine. But I will give you my instructions when I’m damn ready to. Where this is going tonight? _That is not for you to decide._ I’ll decide what’s happening here. Your job in all of this is to _let me have control._ Now are you ready to do that?”

Sherlock’s shocked to find tears welling up in his own eyes. How could he have been so selfish, so blind? John has never, _ever_ let him down when they’re _unwinding_ together; of course he wasn’t about to start tonight. Sherlock feels ashamed for even questioning him.

“Yes, John. Sorry, John.” He blinks up at John through teary lashes.

John seems to process the tears for the first time, and he immediately crouches to Sherlock’s level, carding his fingers through his hair. “It’s alright, sweetheart. You don’t need to be upset. Just let me take care of you, yeah?”

Sherlock nods blearily, and John grins back at him. Then he reaches down to where his dog tags hang around Sherlock’s neck, and holds them up. Sherlock opens his mouth automatically, and John places the tags inside for him to suck before standing up and returning to the kitchen.

Sherlock feels better immediately. Christ, that had been a bit odd, hadn’t it? He’s usually not this emotional or this desperate, even when they are having a session-- something about tonight’s put him a bit off-kilter. He closes his eyes and takes deep, grounding breaths, focusing on the cool metal of John’s tags against his tongue.

An indeterminate amount of time later, he’s pulled back to reality by the sound of John’s voice.

“Sweetheart?”

He opens his eyes to see John standing before him, a bottle of wine and two glasses in hand. Sherlock blinks up at him, awaiting his orders.

John pulls his tags from Sherlock’s mouth. “I’ve run a nice bath for us. Thought we should make the most of Date Night while we can, hmmm? Come on.”

Sherlock’s perplexed. While he knows John is a bit of a romantic (Sherlock will be entirely unsurprised if there are bubbles in the bath and candles on the window ledge-- leave it to John to take advantage of a power exchange to finally get Sherlock to relax and indulge himself), this doesn’t seem much like the _punishment_ he was expecting.

John turns and begins to make his way down the hall. Sherlock freezes in place; although John had given him the command to come along, Sherlock isn’t sure whether he has permission to walk. John’s been experimenting with having him _crawl_ during some of their recent sessions, and Sherlock had found it undeniably arousing. But he’s still in his best suit, yet he doesn’t want to disobey…

John stops and turns around, and then his expression softens immediately. “Oh, shit, sweetheart, sorry. You can walk. I didn’t mean to confuse you.”

Sherlock beams back at him. “Thank you, John.” He rises to his feet and follows John to the bathroom.

John undresses Sherlock and then himself. Sherlock is still hard, but he’s quickly descending into the hazy headspace that overtakes him when they do this, which makes his own arousal secondary to the mere act of submission. John helps Sherlock into the bath (which, as predicted, is filled with rose-scented bubbles) and then hands him a glass of wine before climbing in behind him, bracketing Sherlock’s body with his legs before pulling him back to recline against his chest. Sherlock gives a satisfied hum as he sinks into the water, and John presses a fond kiss against his temple.

Well, this is… unobjectionable. He sips the wine. It’s good-- _very_ good, better than whatever disgusting drivel that useless waiter had brought him, and he grins at the thought.

“So how’s your week been, sweetheart?”

Sherlock lets out a light snort. Is John really trying to carry on a normal conversation in their current state?

But John doesn’t acquiesce. He waits patiently for Sherlock’s response, and finally, Sherlock is forced to string together a coherent sentence.

“It’s been… okay. The MacMahon case was a bust, simply a drug deal turned sour. Had to get Lestrade involved, go through proper channels, the whole thing was quite tedious, really.”

“Drugs?” John can’t hide the surprise from his voice. “I thought the whole ordeal was to do with a stolen unregistered vehicle-- isn’t that why they came to you, under the radar?”

“That was their excuse, but in reality, the gas tank was filled with bags of cocaine. Simple, really, once I compared the projected gas mileage of the vehicle with the distance from the last petrol station visited. They claimed they’d left it at the roadside when it ran out of fuel, but that simply didn’t make sense based on the receipt I found indicating they’d filled it up the day before.”

“Bloody brilliant.”

“Hmmm. Elementary, really, and endlessly boring once I had to get law enforcement involved. Did you know Lestrade has a new team member? He wasn’t on this case, but Lestrade kept going on about how he thinks the two of you will get along…”

And from there, Sherlock rather loses track of time. He and John drink wine and talk and laugh and refill the hot water when the bath turns tepid. At some point John begins tracing lazy patterns up Sherlock’s ribs and across his chest, occasionally gently fondling his nipples, but the act doesn’t feel entirely sexual; it’s simply a gesture of fond companionability, and Sherlock finds himself melting into the sensation. His erection has waned for the most part; though he’s still aroused, it doesn’t feel as pressing or interesting as the story John’s currently relaying (involving one of the doctors from the surgery and an annoying Pomeranian that had gotten loose in the waiting room).

Eventually, John plucks Sherlock’s empty wine glass from his hand and deposits it on the floor beside the tub before placing his own next to it.

“Mmm, alright, sweetheart.” He presses a kiss to the spot just below Sherlock’s left ear always makes him shiver. “We’ve been having such a lovely time, I nearly forgot that you must be rather starved for a bit of attention.” His fingers amble down from Sherlock’s chest to his hipbones, where they trace steady circles around the protrusion of his pelvis there.

Sherlock’s cock rises to full hardness instantaneously. He feels like his blood has been simmering for _ages,_ and now John is about to make him _boil._ He whines and arches his back.

“Yes, please, John.”

“Oh, a bit enthusiastic tonight, are we? Let’s see what we have here.” With that, John takes Sherlock’s cock in one hand and begins to stroke him in strong, steady, delicious pulls.

Sherlock moans, his deep baritone echoing off the tile of the bathroom, amplifying the wanton tone. His hands fly up to grip the sides of the tub, and John chuckles good-naturedly into the side of his neck.

“My, my, eager, eh?” His free hand reaches up to pinch and twist Sherlock’s right nipple. Sherlock keens and hisses at the sensation, and John quickly moves on to lavish similar attention to his left nipple.

“Nnnngh. John. _John.”_

“Oh, sweetheart. You’re so hard already. You must be dying for some release, hmm?”

“FUCK, John, yes, oh God, just like that…” 

John’s hand speeds up, squeezing his shaft just a bit tighter, the heat of the water intensifying the sensation tenfold.

Sherlock sucks in a breath through his teeth. His legs begin to part, and John takes the hint; his free hand travels from Sherlock’s nipples to his balls, which he begins to squeeze and fondle, pausing every so often to apply light pressure to Sherlock’s perineum, stimulating his prostate from outside.

“GAH! Nnnngh, oh, God! John! John!”

“Oh, yes, that’s it, love, let me have it, come on now…”

Sherlock’s head tips back to rest heavily on John’s shoulder, and he wails as he feels the tight coiling in his lower abdomen. His cock stiffens impossibly further, and John’s hand speeds up, and then--

Nothing. John releases his shaft and balls all at once, and Sherlock is left writhing and moaning helplessly, his body chasing the release he’s been so cruelly denied, splashing about in the bathwater in a rather undignified manner.

“Fuck! FUCK!” The denied orgasm creates a tight pinching sensation in his groin, and he scrunches his eyes shut and forces himself to breathe through it, curling into a near-foetal position as he shakes and strains.

Behind him, John is silent.

Finally, Sherlock collapses back into the water, splaying out against John’s chest as his muscles begin to reluctantly relax.

“Fuck, John…”

“I know, sweetheart. But you didn’t really think I was going to just let you get away with that appalling behaviour tonight, did you? Just take you home and treat you nice and sweet, jerk you off in the bath as I mutter in your ear about how fucking sexy you are and how much you turn me on? No, darling, that’s for nights when you’ve been _good._ And tonight, you were not _good._ In fact, you were very bad indeed.” John’s voice is infused with a casual, conversational tone, but Sherlock can detect the hint of cold calculation beneath it.

Sherlock moans. Shit, John is going to make him pay _dearly_ for his little performance with the waiter. He shudders at the thought.

“Alright, now. Hold on tight, we’re going to go again. Don’t you dare come.” Sherlock’s hands fly to the edges of the tub, knuckles whitening in anticipation. And with that, John’s hand closes around his cock, and begins to move.

It’s agony. John edges him four times in rapid succession as Sherlock gasps and begs. The fourth time is the worst; before John even takes Sherlock’s cock in his hand, he toys with his hole for a good ten minutes, fondling his rim and pressing gently inside him, massaging his prostate and doing all the lovely, wonderful things that normally Sherlock would be _ecstatic_ John was doing to his arse, but tonight, he knows it’s all for nothing. Sure enough, when John finally deigns to remove his fingers from inside Sherlock, he simply jerks him so relentlessly that Sherlock is _positive_ he’s about to topple over the edge before withdrawing his hand and gripping Sherlock by the shoulders to lock him in place as he thrashes and swears, chasing a release forever disappearing into the horizon.

It’s at that point Sherlock begins to cry. It’s nothing melodramatic or overly-theatrical, simply his most base emotional response to the torturous denial that John is subjecting him to. In any other headspace he’d be mortified to be brought to tears by the mere demands of his transport, but he’s found when he’s submitting to John, the filter between his brain and body breaks down entirely. Not only that, but he knows for a fact that it turns John on when he cries - for some reason, John hates this about himself, but Sherlock privately finds it rather unbearably erotic.

“Ohhh, shhh, sweetheart, you’re alright. Come on, now, no one’s ever died of blue balls, hmm?”

Sherlock lets out a wet chuckle and takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and attempting to re-centre himself. He feels John’s fingers lightly tracing the length of his pulsing shaft, not enough to properly stimulate him, but enough to remind him of the uncomfortable pressure welling up inside him.

“I think that’s enough for now, hmm? Come on, let’s get you dried off, then I’ll fuck you properly. Get you nice and loose and then rail you until you can’t remember your own name, let alone the name of that fucking bastard who wanted you, who thought he could have you. What would he think if he knew, hmmm? Knew that you were mine? Knew that I’m the only man you’ve _ever_ let fuck you, the only man you’ve _ever_ let have your arse, the only man you’ve _ever_ let see you like this, begging and needy? I think he would have shown me a bit more respect, don’t you think?” John’s voice is low in Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock nods his head so vehemently that John laughs, and gives his cock one last teasing squeeze before releasing it entirely. He sits Sherlock up and extricates himself from the bath, toweling himself off before extending his hand to Sherlock to help him from the tub.

Sherlock’s cock swings heavily in front of him, swollen and pulsing with need. Aside from not having time to have sex with John for three weeks, he’d been on cases the entire time, which meant he hadn’t masturbated, either. The need to release feels achingly persistent, and he’s grateful that John only lightly brushes his most sensitive areas with the towel as he’s drying him off; he’s fairly certain any direct stimulation at this point would result in immediate ejaculation.

John tosses the towel aside and grins up at Sherlock, and Sherlock grins back. Christ, he loves this-- they both do, and these shared moments between them feel so beautifully intimate, it all but takes Sherlock’s breath away.

“Alright, sweetheart. Bedroom. Crawl.”

A violent shiver works its way up Sherlock’s spine as he drops to his hands and knees on the bathmat. John leads the way into the bedroom, Sherlock crawling closely behind him, the act of submission so intoxicating that he’s finding it a bit hard to see.

“Stay there.”

Sherlock waits on his hands and knees as John strips the duvet off the bed. Sherlock’s gaze rests impassively on his own cock, which is emitting drips of precome onto the rug. He slams his eyes shut and swears under his breath.

“Alright, sweetheart, up you get. Lie down perpendicular on the bed, face up, head on this side of the bed, closest to me. Good, just like that, bend your knees and keep your feet planted, perfect, perfect…” John’s voice is suspiciously cheerful, but Sherlock knows better than to be lulled into a false sense of security this time; he knows that generally the more benevolent John appears, the more he’s about to demand of Sherlock.

As soon as Sherlock has assumed the position (he’s entirely flummoxed about John’s game plan here-- why the hell is he putting Sherlock perpendicular on the bed? Is John planning to fuck him like this? Rotating himself 90 degrees on their mattress hardly seems kinky enough to be considered a new and adventurous position…), John turns and rummages through the drawer of the nightstand until he produces the lube, then then smiles down placidly at Sherlock.

“Gorgeous. Going to prep you now, love, how does that sound?”

“Yes, please, John…” There’s a quiver of hesitation in his voice; Sherlock is still suspicious of John’s motives here, there’s no way this is going to be as simple as he’s making it out to be…

“Excellent. So here’s the deal: you’re going to get my cock nice and ready with that gorgeous mouth of yours while I get you ready to take me. How does that sound, mmm?”

“Good, John.”

“Good. Slide back towards me a bit, let your head hang off the edge of the bed. There, just like that.” Sherlock blinks rapidly, now startlingly upside-down. “So your mouth is going to be rather indisposed, sweetheart. If you need to stop or if you’re having trouble breathing, I want you to snap once. Understood?”

Sherlock swallows, the reality of what John’s about to make him endure washing over him in a sobering wave. He steadies himself and replies. “Yes, John.”

“Good. Open wide, now. Be good for me, sweetheart.”

Sherlock opens his mouth, and John presses his erect cock inside.

Sherlock grunts in surprise as John guides his length deep into his mouth, until the tip is edging down his throat. He’s never sucked John from this angle before, and the depth of penetration is frankly startling. 

From somewhere above him, John issues a contented hum, and Sherlock feels John’s hand come to rest gently around his neck. John begins to lightly thrust.

Sherlock moans and grips the sheets, and John swears loudly, breaking the silence of the room. “Fuck! Jesus, I can feel my cock moving in your throat, that’s incredible, amazing. Deep breaths through your nose, love, just relax and take me now, come on, nice and deep, oh there, _there,_ yes, good! Oh, love, that’s perfect, let me fuck your throat now…”

They establish a rhythm, John undulating his hips in slow, decadent movements, working himself in and out of Sherlock’s mouth at a leisurely pace. Sherlock for his part focuses exclusively on breathing, not gagging, and remembering to keep his teeth out of the way. Occasionally he has the presence of mind to swirl his tongue around the head of John’s cock on the outstroke, but he finds he’s rather too immobilised and overwhelmed to participate much further than that, yet John doesn’t seem to mind. After a time, he lets out a satisfied hum and increases the frequency of his thrusts, and Sherlock forces his throat to relax to let John sink in impossibly further.

He’s so consumed by the ravaging his mouth and throat are receiving that he noticeably starts when John presses into his hole with two lubed fingers. The digital penetration John performed on him in the bath had already loosened him considerably, but the intensity of the stretch combined with his already-overstimulated nervous system redirects his focus, and he’s so distracted that chokes on John’s next thrust.

John pulls his cock away immediately as Sherlock coughs and shudders, gasping down as much air as his burning lungs can handle. 

“Shhh, sweetheart, are you alright?” 

Sherlock attempts to nod, but from his upside-down angle, it comes off as more of an awkward spasm. He resigns himself to speaking.

“Yes, John. Sorry, John. Just… lost my focus.”

John makes a forlorn tutting noise, and Sherlock shivers in disappointment; he wants so badly to please John, and now he’s gone and messed everything up…

“Please, John, you can start again. I can do this. Please.”

“I don’t know, darling. It might be more than you can handle. Perhaps I should just ready my cock myself, since you don’t seem to be up for it…”

“No! John, please…” Surprisingly, the tearful, cloying feeling in his chest is back, and he does his best to lift his head, willing John to meet his eyes. “Please, I want it, please let me have your cock.”

John peers down at him and sighs. “I don’t know, sweetheart. Ask nicely.”

Sherlock blinks up at him, desperation fueling the stream of words flowing from his mouth without filter or shame. “Please, John, please, let me have your cock. I’ll be so good, I’ll make it so good for you, _please._ I’m begging, John, I want it so badly, please let me have it, _please…”_

After a seeming eternity, John gives him a curt nod, and Sherlock drops his head back, heaving a relieved sigh as he opens his mouth once more.

John pulls no punches this time around. He fucks Sherlock’s mouth ruthlessly as he preps his arse, pressing a third finger in alongside the first two and twisting them deep into Sherlock’s hole before angling them to torture his prostate. Sherlock arches and moans and spreads his legs as wide as he can, but all the while he devotes fastidious attention to keeping his throat open and mouth soft for John’s use. John begins to moan obscenely, and Sherlock delights in the knowledge that he is finally, _finally_ pleasing John.

At long last, John’s fingers disappear from inside him, and he withdraws his prick from Sherlock’s mouth with an obscene _pop_. Sherlock gasps at the loss, shuddering as he processes his debauched state, prone on the bed, open and wet and so damn _needy_ he can’t see straight. His hole feels loose and exposed, and he’s overwhelmed with the urge to be _fucked_ and _filled._

Lucky for him, John seems to have no interest in biding his time. He grabs Sherlock by the hair and hauls him bodily into a seated position before pushing him him gruffly forward onto his hands and knees. Sherlock scrambles to comply, the desire to fulfill John’s wishes overriding any other thoughts that flit through his rapidly-surrendering mind. He drops to his elbows and thrusts his arse in the air, presenting himself for John’s use and issuing a high, breathless whine.

“Oh, look at you. So desperate, so needy, hmm?”

“Yes, John.”

John lets out a low chuckle. His firm hands come to rest on Sherlock’s hips, and his whole body vibrates in anticipation as John begins to drag his cock slowly up and down Sherlock’s cleft. 

“Beg for it.”

“Fuck, John, please.” Sherlock drops his forehead to rest on the sheets and arches his back in supplication. “Want your cock. Fuck me, fill me, claim me, make me _yours,_ please, God, can’t wait any more…”

“And do you think you deserve that?” John stops moving, his cock pulsing idly between Sherlock’s cheeks.

Sherlock shivers and scrunches his eyes shut. “No, John.” The words are barely a whisper.

“Sorry, darling, can’t hear you up here. What did you say to me?”

Sherlock raises his voice. “No, John. I don’t deserve you.” 

John lets out an exasperated sigh. “No, you really don’t. You behaved VERY badly tonight, love, flirting and flaunting and _sucking up._ I bet that fucking waiter asked to blow you when you went back inside, didn’t he?”

Sherlock buries his face in the mattress.

“Answer me, sweetheart, or we’re going to have a real problem here. _Did he ask to suck you off?”_

“Yes, John.”

John laughs, a mirthless, cruel sound. “Oh, that’s rich. That’s _rich_ indeed. If only he knew, hmm? If only he knew you were _mine.”_

“Yes, John, yours, all, yours.”

“Goddamn right you’re _mine,_ I’m going to spend the rest of the night making sure you don’t fucking forget it.” His hands grip Sherlock’s cheeks and force them together, creating a slick channel for him to thrust his cock into.

Sherlock shudders and moans. Christ, what this side of John _does_ to him, it should be criminal, surely he’s about to shake apart with the overwhelming arousal of it all…

John speaks as he continues to thrust between Sherlock’s cheeks. “So here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to open your mouth and I’m going to put my tags inside, and you’re going to keep them there throughout the duration of the evening. You are not to say a word. You are not to make a sound. You are not to fight me. I’m going to have you in every conceivable way that I want you, and you are going to let me, is that understood?”

“Yes, John.”

“You are not to come. You are not to express your pleasure. Whether or not you are enjoying yourself is of no consequence to me, is that understood?”

“Yes, John.”

“You are absolutely under no circumstances allowed to come. If you come, this all stops, and you are in for a world of trouble. Understood?”

“Yes, John.”

“This is about _you_ surrendering to _me._ Exclusively. Nothing else. Are you ready to do that?”

“Oh, God, yes.”

“Good.”

Suddenly, John’s voice is in his ear, warm and soft, the demanding tone suddenly evaporated. “One snap to pause, two snaps to stop, three snaps to end the session. Or you can drop the tags and speak up, yeah?”

Sherlock smirks into the bedsheets. Leave it to John to break mid-session to remind him of their rules-- Christ, couldn’t he _ever_ turn it off? But a part of him secretly warms, knowing that John is checking in with him, affirming his consent.

He turns his head to speak clearly. “Yes, John.”

“Good.” John reaches down to grab his tags from where they hang around Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock opens his mouth and John places them reverently on his tongue. Sherlock closes his mouth and his eyes, and surrenders.

He’s not quite sure what he expected from this encounter, but he finds himself rather surprised at John’s approach. Sherlock had rather thought John would simply climb onto the bed behind him and fuck him as brutally as possible before finishing inside him with a satisfied shout. Perhaps afterwards he’d put Sherlock’s plug in, then maybe have him once or twice more before jerking Sherlock off and then announcing it was time to go to sleep.

But that’s what makes John such a simply _marvelous_ partner: He is completely, totally, endlessly surprising.

Tonight, he doesn’t simply mount Sherlock from behind and deliver a punishing fuck. Instead, he drives into him slowly, reverently, then practically _makes love_ to him for what feels like a goddamned eternity. He doesn’t piston into him with sharp, demanding strokes; he slides in and out of him in smooth, undulating waves, withdrawing his cock almost completely each time before pressing back in with agonizing care and precision. He runs his fingertips gently along the hatched scarring on Sherlock’s back in that gentle, teasing way that always makes Sherlock quiver with want. His cock brushes Sherlock’s prostate just enough to keep him aroused, but never enough to prompt ejaculation. He brings Sherlock to a plateau and keeps him there, controlling his transport with masterful precision.

Sherlock is in exquisite agony. He’s yearning to moan, to beg, to at least be permitted to vocalise exactly how fucking _incredible_ John’s cock feels, but his instructions are clear. Instead, he’s forced to focus his attention on the sensation of the metal tags against his tongue in a desperate attempt to distract himself to the pleasure John is delivering his arse.

Eventually, John’s strokes start to grow a bit painful. Sherlock notes he’s becoming rather overstimulated; his body, sensing no relief was in sight, is now sending signals to his brain that the persistent invasion needs to _stop._ He heaves a deep breath and forces his hard drive to overwrite the command.

Luckily, John seems to be on the same page. He withdraws from Sherlock rather unceremoniously before placing one firm hand between Sherlock’s shoulderblades and pressing him down until he’s lying sprawled on the bed, barely suppressing the gasp that threatens to escape him as his engorged cock comes into contact with the mattress. But before he’s even able to properly process the sensation, John’s rolling him onto his side and grabbing his top leg behind the knee, pulling it up and open, pressing Sherlock’s thigh towards his own chest.

“Hold yourself behind your knee, just like I’m doing.” Sherlock complies as quickly as possible, and he and John make eye contact for the first time in what feels like ages. “Lovely. Very nice, sweetheart, hold yourself open, just like that.”

And then John’s grabbing the lube and re-slicking his cock and sliding back inside Sherlock’s already-overstimulated passage before gripping Sherlock’s prone, limp body by the shoulder and the hip before starting to thrust in earnest.

Sherlock slams his eyes shut once more and issues a pained huff through his nostrils.

Throughout the duration of their sexual relationship, Sherlock has noticed that he and John approach sex with two very different objectives in mind. 

For Sherlock, the objective was to come _quickly_ and _often._ Until he met John, he’d been unaware that his own refractory period was so remarkable; after all, he had a rather small data pool with which to compare it. But apparently, the ability to come up to three times in fairly rapid succession when his prostate was stimulated internally was a rather rare skill set indeed, and John was quite surprised and delighted by this turn of events. Furthermore, Sherlock discovered that he was also rather keen on overstimulation; even if he and John were just having vanilla sex (meaning that Sherlock would generally only have one orgasm), Sherlock preferred to come as quickly as possible following the initial penetration, then revel in the not-quite-discomfort that resulted in being fucked for a considerable duration following his release. It had taken him a while to convince John that this is what he liked, but once John accepted it, he was more than willing to indulge in extended spells of passionate sex as Sherlock revelled in post-orgasmic bliss.

For his part, John was the consummate considerate lover. He prided himself on his _stamina_ above all else. Though he was of course willing to engage in the usual fast-and-frenzied one-offs that kept them both hot and bothered for each other, what John excelled in most were lengthy periods of intense love-making, exploring a multitude of activities and positions before he’d allow himself release. Sherlock had grown to adore this about John; the way he’d pace their encounters so beautifully, guiding Sherlock gently through a staggering array of sensations before bringing him over the edge, then fucking him so thoroughly in his post-coital haze that Sherlock felt he would all but drown in the perfection of it all.

But tonight, John’s stamina has become Sherlock’s worst enemy. Because as he lies supine on his side, holding himself open for John to plunder ruthlessly, his own release a distant fantasy, he realises that John’s plan for the evening is to make Sherlock _endure._

And Sherlock resolves to do his best. He drifts beautifully in his submissive headspace as John continues to take his pleasure, not moaning, not begging, simply _being_ as John commandeers his transport. Above him, he’s distantly aware that John’s issuing the occasional satisfied grunt, but he’s not increasing his pace or gripping Sherlock harder or giving any indication whatsoever that he’s nearing climax. He’s stringing them both out on a wire, spinning their mutual pleasure into an unbreakable line, extending into the infinite distance.

Sherlock has no concept of how long John fucks him like this. All he knows is that when John pulls out, his hole feels hot and raw and his cock is pulsing feebly in front of him, aching with persistent need. 

“Hmmm.” John’s hands are on him, steady and strong, manhandling Sherlock once more until he’s on his back, legs splayed, John’s fingers toying noncommittally with his rim and he gives him an appraising glance. “Christ, sweetheart, you’re taking me so well. Being so good. You like taking my cock?”

Sherlock nearly opens his mouth to speak, but catches himself just in time. He nods blearily instead.

John smirks. “Good. You’re looking a bit sore, I think a bit more lube is in order…” He seems to be speaking mainly to himself, and Sherlock lets his eyes flutter shut as John procures the bottle of lube and begins to finger more into Sherlock’s abused hole.

“Mmmm, there we go. Nice and ready for me. You ready for more, sweetheart?”

Sherlock doesn’t open his eyes. He can feel tears trickling from the corners of them, but he doesn’t fight it; he leans into the surrender and nods.

“Good.” Without further ado, John hauls Sherlock’s legs up over his shoulders and plunges his cock back inside him once more.

This time, John’s thrusts are more demanding than before. Sherlock is feeling beyond fucked-out; despite having not come, his arse feels sore, and he discovers he wants nothing more than for John to just _come in him already._ Whether or not he orgasms himself is beyond the point entirely; he simply wants the overstimulation to stop.

But it doesn’t. John takes him through an interminable array of paces and angles, sometimes gripping the headboard to keep his thrusts short and deep, other times hauling Sherlock back into his lap so that he can thrust up into him in long, leisurely strokes. It’s all torture, the lot of it, and Sherlock finds himself increasingly overwhelmed with the desire to cry out in anguish. But he forces himself to remain silent, to submit, to allow John to use him. And the harder that submission is to lean into, the more fulfilling it is when he transcends it.

This is what this is all about.

He’s brought back to reality with the sensation of his own legs, still propped on John’s shoulders, being pushed back nearly to his own chest. Without withdrawing his cock from Sherlock’s arse, John manages to roll into a crouch, feet planted firmly on the mattress, legs in a squat, his muscular quads providing Sherlock the perfect grip for his flailing hands. Sherlock, for his part, his bent practically double, entirely immobilized.  
And with a satisfied hum, John finally begins to properly ravage him.

His thrusts are short and frantic, animalistic in their ferocity and pointed in their intent. John is issuing a series of obscene moans as he chases his release, and Sherlock once again scrunches his eyes shut, overwhelmed by the intensity of it all.

“No, no, none of that.” John stops thrusting balls-deep inside him, grinding into him in torturous circles. “Open your eyes, sweetheart. You’ll look at me when I’m coming inside you.”

Sherlock wrenches his eyes open to meet John’s eyes, wild and hungry and utterly consuming. His brow is soaked in sweat, and he grins down devilishly at Sherlock, who shivers beneath his gaze.

“That’s more like it.”

And with that, he resumes fucking down into Sherlock with unprecedented intensity.

It doesn’t take long from there. A filthy litany of praise for Sherlock’s arse is flowing freely from John’s mouth, but Sherlock is too caught up in his own ravishment to process any of it. The next thing he knows, John is ramming into him with every ounce of strength he has left, and all the remaining breath is forced from Sherlock’s burning lungs.

And then there’s the beautiful, familiar feeling of John’s release filling him. It’s warm and comforting and so goddamn _affirming,_ Sherlock can barely process it. All he knows is that John’s face is contorted into a mask of ecstasy as he pumps everything he has into Sherlock where he lies trapped beneath him, submitting to him, surrendering his body to bring John this moment of pure, unparallelled bliss, unquestioning in his surrender.

It’s moments like this that make Sherlock so grateful that he’d never let anyone besides John fuck him. Despite his hellish relationship history, he’s come to believe, in some perversely _sentimental_ way, that it all happened for a reason-- all the disappointment, the heartbreak, the deceit and misunderstanding, all of it happened so that what he lets John do to him is _special,_ it’s _meaningful,_ it’s a symbol of the way he feels about John; completely, utterly possessed by him in a way no one has ever scratched the surface of before. It’s the purest form of belonging that the has ever known.

On top of him, John grunts and grinds his way through the aftershocks of his orgasm. Sherlock’s cock is dripping precome onto his abdomen, twitching in sympathy, yearning for a release of its own, but he forces himself to remain silent, pliant, _patient._

Eventually, John has had his fill. He pulls out of Sherlock and rolls off of him, depositing the dead weight of Sherlock’s legs onto the bed and then pulling him close, brushing the sweat-soaked curls back from his forehead and gazing down at him adoringly.

“Christ, sweetheart, that was _perfect!_ You were so _good, so good for me, I’m so proud of you, God, love, you’re amazing, brilliant…”_

Sherlock sinks into the praise and the comfort of John’s arms. The tears have stopped flowing, and he feels entirely at peace.

It comes as almost a shock when he feels John’s fingers teasing along his engorged shaft. His eyes snap open, and he issues a desperate whimper before he can stop himself.

But John isn’t angry. He lovingly reaches up and pulls his tags from Sherlock’s mouth, then lowers his head to press a deep kiss against his lips, his tongue lapping eagerly into Sherlock’s mouth, making him feel debauched and desired all at once.

When John pulls away, he continues to gently fondle Sherlock’s cock. He doesn’t even fully wrap his fingers around his shaft, let alone strip him in a way that would bring him to release; instead, he lets his fingertips trace lazy patterns from the tip of his cock to his balls to his perineum and then back again. Sherlock sighs and allows himself to relax into the sensation, reveling in the way he returns so quickly to full hardness.

After a time, John withdraws his hand and turns to the nightstand, from which he procures a glass of water.

“Come on, love. Take a drink, now.” He brings the straw to Sherlock’s lips and Sherlock sips it gingerly; though he’s suddenly agonisingly aware of how thirsty he is, he knows John dislikes it when he gulps his water too greedily.

Once he’s had his fill, he pulls back, and John grins at him before setting the glass back on the nightstand. “Gorgeous, love. Going to make you feel good now, alright? You can speak, you can make noise, but you can’t come. Understood?”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock’s voice is startlingly hoarse from disuse.

“Lovely.” And with that, John clambers down to the end of the bed, pries Sherlock’s legs apart, and kneels between them. Then he bends down and begins to delicately lap at the head of his cock.

Sherlock moans. It feels _exquisite,_ but he wants more, he _needs_ more, he needs that perfect, tight, warm suction that only John’s mouth can provide.

But John isn’t capitulating so easily. He takes his time, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses the length of Sherlock’s shaft, sucking his balls into his mouth one at a time, then making his way back up to tease the tip with coquettish kitten licks. It’s absolute torture, and Sherlock’s cock throbs obscenely as John works him over with calculated precision.

Before too long, Sherlock feels John’s fingers insert themselves gently into his cleft. He spreads his legs and tilts his pelvis up, granting John access; he knows that John delights in observing his own come leaking from that most intimate place, and sure enough, John pauses in his ministrations to part Sherlock’s cheeks and look over his hole.

“Fuck, that’s beautiful, sweetheart. You took me so well tonight. You look gorgeous.” He lowers his head to suckle the tip of Sherlock’s cock, then dips two fingers into his hole, letting out a satisfied moan as they slide through the slick wetness there.

It’s a bit painful, if Sherlock’s honest, but the _good_ kind of pain, the kind born from glorious overstimulation. He finds that he doesn’t quite mind the sensation of John’s fingers exploring his arse so long as John’s lips stay on his shaft, and he’s all too happy to give John the satisfaction of delighting in the feeling of his release deep inside of him. 

And frankly, at this point Sherlock is willing to indulge basically _anything,_ so long as John gets down to business and lets him _come_ soon. He knows John has a seemingly endless bag of tricks, but Sherlock’s near certain he’s endured nearly all of them at this point, which means that his own gratification will _surely_ be next on the list. He need only lie back and be patient, until John is finished.

But shockingly, startlingly, most unfairly, John’s lips _and_ fingers disappear, and the next thing Sherlock knows, John is reclining beside him in bed, gathering Sherlock dotingly into his arms and peppering his matted curls with kisses. Sherlock huffs indignantly-- he’s all for delayed gratification, but this is frankly getting ridiculous.

“Alright, sweetheart. How are you feeling?”

“Fine, John.” Sherlock can’t keep the salty tone from his voice, but luckily, it only seems to amuse John, who lets out a good-natured chuckle.

“Good, glad to hear it. So here’s what I want to happen next: I want us to try something new. We’ve discussed it before and it’s something we’ve properly negotiated, but this is the first time we’re trying it, so I’m going to need your consent, alright?”

Sherlock nods, completely lost. He doesn’t have the willpower to attempt to access his Mind Palace to figure out just what the hell John is talking about.

“Alright. Love, I don’t want you to come tonight. I want you to go to sleep unsatisfied like this. And I want you to stay in bed, with me, until the morning. If you do that, you’ll get your reward.”

Sherlock feels as though the floor has dropped out from beneath him.

John’s right, the two of them _had_ negotiated this, a few weeks back during one of their regular ‘State-Of-Whatever-The-Hell-This-Is’ discussions that John was always making them have. 

During their talk, John had brought up _extended foreplay_ and _interplay_ for the first time since they’d initially discussed them, months earlier when they were negotiating the initiation of Sherlock’s anal plug. During the anal plug negotiation, John had asked Sherlock whether he’d be interested in wearing the plug for extended durations including non-sexual situations, which Sherlock had unequivocally rejected; the idea of being engaged in a quasi-sexual act whilst conducting experiments or being called out on a case was wholly unappealing to him, and he’d made that perfectly clear.

But during their talk a few weeks ago, John had revisited the topic, proposing a completely _different_ type of extended foreplay: denied orgasm. He and Sherlock were more than familiar with edging by that point, but John had inquired (whist blushing furiously, in that maddeningly adorable way that he always did) whether Sherlock would consider consenting to longer periods of denial, which would perhaps extend beyond the boundaries of a session.

Sherlock had taken a few days to consider it. On the surface, the proposition seemed completely appealing; he loved the act of submitting to John, he adored it when John edged him, and nothing turned him on more than when John was dominating him completely, controlling his pleasure in that masterful way that only John could.

But there was more to it than that. Though Sherlock loved the act of submitting to John, part of what he enjoyed about it was the physical _reward_ he received in return, the metaphorical carrot on the stick. Regardless of the rigors John put him through during a session, in the end, Sherlock being granted orgasm was affirmation that he had pleased John, and therefore earned a reward. Without that reward, would Sherlock still feel gratified by his own submission? Or would it turn him hostile and insubordinate? At the time, he had no clue which way the scale would tip.

So he’d consented, with conditions: That they could try it, so long as John made sure it was during a time in which Sherlock was unlikely to be called out on a case before given the chance to release, and John would remain with Sherlock throughout the duration of the denial. John had beamed at Sherlock, clearly thrilled that he was negotiating his terms so astutely, and expressed his consent.

And so here they were, Sherlock three weeks and one obscenely long fucking separated from his last orgasm, rock hard and leaking and gagging for it.

And John, asking him to wait.

He blinks a few times, his brain analysing and categorising the various inputs from his transport. Eventually, he meets John’s eye and nods.

“Yes, John. You can leave me like this.”

John breaks into a thousand-watt smile, and Sherlock’s heart seems to beat double-time. Christ, the things he’ll do to be on the receiving end of that smile… he hazards a forlorn glance at his flushed cock, still eagerly awaiting the release that Sherlock had just agreed to deny it. He heaves an unsteady breath and drops his head back to the pillow.

“Alright, love. Here, let’s get ready for bed.” John springs up and fetches the discarded duvet from off the floor, then pulls the sheet up over Sherlock and places the duvet carefully over it. Sherlock hisses as his engorged member comes into contact with the fabric, and he can feel his balls pull tight in desperation. He lets out a helpless moan.

“Oh, sweetheart, shhh.” John clambers back into bed and flicks off the lamp on the nightstand before gathering Sherlock into his arms. “You’ll be alright. Just let it go. Be good for me, for a little while longer. Be good.”

Sherlock gives a muzzy nod and closes his eyes.

Infuriatingly, John falls asleep first. His arms go lax and Sherlock takes the opportunity to sidle over onto his own side of the bed; as much as he generally enjoys some post-session aftercare, the skin-on-skin contact is driving him mad in his current state, his epidermis _clearly_ not having gotten the message that John would not be providing any more satisfaction tonight. He sinks into the cool sheets with a sigh of relief, but soon finds that the separation has done little to dissuade his member.

He huffs into the silent darkness and shifts his hips. The friction of the sheets against his cock feels nice. Too nice. He stills.

He manages to hold still for 892 seconds. 

His balls feel tight and uncomfortable. He resigns himself to moving, and reluctantly spreads his legs, attempting to give himself some breathing room.

Wrong move. Parting his legs only serves to remind him of the _delicious_ fucking John had dished out tonight, and before he can snap them back together, he feels a trickle of come leak from his hole.

Oh, Christ, that’s _filthy._

He lets his fingers wander to that most intimate place, pulling his own cheeks apart and running his fingers through the wetness there before pressing two of them into his own hole with a satisfied sigh.

It’s comforting, somehow, to feel John still inside him like this. To know that even though Sherlock was not rewarded with his own release, he still brought John pleasure. He still surrendered the way John needed him to. He hadn’t failed. He had given John his body and made John come, and John was happy, and that was all that mattered.

He drifts off to sleep, comforted in that knowledge.

He wakes up twice in the night, both times hard and throbbing. He knows his erection has undoubtedly waned in the interim, but his arousal feels _constant_ and downright suffocating. Both times he throws off the blankets and forces himself to remain completely still, breathing deeply into the darkness, focusing every effort of his transport on fulfilling John’s desire.

Both times, he eventually falls back asleep.

He wakes to the luxurious feeling of lips against his shoulder. Despite himself, he startles, then hears the comforting sound of John’s chuckle against his neck.

“Morning, love.”

“Nnngh. What time is it?”

“5:37.”

“...oh.” Sherlock’s brain is struggling to process his current situation; it’s still dark outside, John’s sucking voraciously on his neck, and his cock feels like it’s about to burst. It takes him a moment to recall the events of the previous night, and as soon as he does, he tips his head back and issues an obscene moan.

John gives his neck a parting nibble and then withdraws, peering down at Sherlock in the darkness. “So how was it, love? Were you good?”

“Oh, yes, John. _Very_ good.” Sherlock answers in his most sultry baritone, and John lets out a contented hum.

“Well, let me just see about that.” John’s hand closes around Sherlock’s cock, and Sherlock lets out an undignified yelp. “Oh, Jesus, sweetheart, that’s so lovely. You’re so hard, all for me, hmm?”

_“Fuck, yes John, all for you…”_ Sherlock feels suddenly breathless and nearly out of his mind with desire.

“Fuck, that’s beautiful. Now I want you to come.” And with that, John disappears under the covers. Moments later, his lips close around Sherlock’s turgid cock, and he sucks, _hard._

Sherlock comes immediately. Ordinarily he’d be embarrassed, going off in two seconds flat like a horny teenager, but given current circumstances, he has absolutely _no_ qualms about indulging himself. His orgasm is sharp and overwhelming and nearly painful in its intensity, but he doesn’t much care. All he cares about is the way it feels to have John’s mouth on him, sucking him, drinking him down and moaning like his come is the best thing he’s ever tasted in his life. The rawness of it spurns another wave of ecstasy, and Sherlock bows his back and tangles his fingers in John’s hair as John swallows around him.

John suckles him gently through the aftershocks, then pulls off, his head re-emerging from beneath the duvet, hair clearly hilariously disheveled, even in the dim light of pre-dawn. He cups Sherlock’s jaw gently in his hand.

“Fuck, Sherlock. That was amazing. How do you feel?”

Sherlock doesn’t know how to answer. He feels completely, utterly _undone,_ the headiness of the extended submission so overwhelming that he feels rather adrift.

Finally, he’s able to cobble some words together. “Good. I… John, I think I need… can you hold me, please. I’m… um…” He feels a bit like the world is soft at the seams, but there doesn’t seem to be a good way to articulate that particular observation.

But of course, he needn’t have worried. Because if there is one thing John Watson loves, it is indulging Sherlock in tender, worshipful aftercare.

John cradles Sherlock in his arms and has him drink water, then smothers him in kisses and exorbitant praise. He tells Sherlock how wonderful and brilliant and amazing he is, and how lucky John feels to have him. He tells Sherlock how good he is. So good. So _good._

They drift off to sleep once more, tangled up in one another, lost to the outside world.

Sherlock jerks awake to the sensation of teeth nibbling his hipbone. He lets out a surprised yelp, but quickly determines that it’s merely John.

John, who is 1) awake and 2) lapping his way down the crease of Sherlock’s groin, next to his newly-reinvigorated erection.

“Nnngh, John.”

“Hello again.” John lowers his head to suck one of Sherlock’s balls into his mouth, and Sherlock moans and spreads his legs. John takes the hint, and brings up a finger to press against his perineum.

“What’s… _fuck, nnngh,_ what’s all this?”

John relinquishes Sherlock’s ball and gazes up at him demurely. “When I woke up, you were hard again.” He matter-of-factly lowers his head to lavish attention on the other ball.

_“Christ, John, I...fuck!”_

John licks a sinful stripe up Sherlock’s shaft and latches his lips over the head of his cock, tonguing his slit playfully.

“John, John, I’m… I’m going to…”

John raises his head and grins up at him. “Go ahead, love. I promised I’d reward you if you were good. And you were _so very good._ Going to treat you nice all damn day…” And with that, he swallows Sherlock to the root.

Sherlock soon finds himself on the receiving end of one of the most decadent blow jobs John Watson has delivered in recent memory. By the time Sherlock is emptying himself down John’s throat, fistfuls of golden-grey hair twisted in his fingers, he’s wailing with the consuming perfection of it. John swallows every last drop, then pops up, eyes gleaming, and nonchalantly wipes his lips.

Sherlock is forced to nap for another half hour.

When he wakes again, John is still beside him, carding his fingers absently through Sherlock’s hair as he thumbs at his phone. Sherlock shifts, stretches, and smiles as John’s gaze meets his, electric in the brilliant morning sunlight.

“Hi.”

“Hi, John.”

“Back in the land of the living?”

“Mmm, I think so.” Sherlock does a quick systems check, and it seems both his transport and Mind Palace are operating at normal levels.

“Glad to hear it. How are you feeling?”

“Fine. A bit sore, considering you rogered me rather brutally for what I’m fairly certain was several hours straight, but fine.”

Sherlock sits up, wincing slightly as he does so, and John shoots him a coy smile. “As I recall, there was nothing straight about it.” Sherlock moans and shakes his head, offended by John’s horrendous affinity for puns. “So… I checked you over earlier and there was no tearing, so you might be sore, but you’ll live. And how are you… um… emotionally? Need any more aftercare?”

John blushes furiously at the word _emotionally--_ it’s so _unlike_ either of them to use that word, that Sherlock has to remind himself not to get exasperated. He recalls how desperate and unmoored he’d been following his first orgasm that morning, and he realises he shouldn’t blame John for being a bit concerned.

“No, thank you. My mental state seems to have returned to normal.”

“Lucky turn-up, that, because Mrs. H was just texting to see when she can drop Rosie off. Will you be alright if she’s back soon?”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock pauses. “But… thank you. For asking.” It’s unexpectedly touching to have John check in with Sherlock to make sure he’s alright before they resume their usual dynamics, signifying the end of their session. It’s… sweet.

John taps a response into his phone (Sherlock makes himself willfully ignore how agonisingly slowly John types) then discards it on the nightstand and gets to his feet, grabbing his dressing gown and fumbling for his slippers.

“I’m going to go put the kettle on. You should… probably shower.”

Sherlock rakes his fingers through his hair, deliberately mussing it even more than usual. “And why’s that?”

“Because frankly, my dear, you look as if you’ve been fucked six ways to Sunday, and I don’t want to scandalise poor Mrs. Hudson.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and as he rises from the bed (wincing only slightly as he processes the ache inside him) and shuffles towards the bathroom. “Fine, although I don’t know why we bother pretending you didn’t spend last night shagging me senseless. You were rather _rudely_ vocal about it, in all honesty, and if by some miracle Hudders missed that, I did warn her before I left to meet you for dinner that we’d be having quite a lot of sex and that she’d best not disturb us until morning.”

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock gives John his most innocent expression. “What? It’s true.”

John pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation, but Sherlock observes the corners of his mouth turning up in a poorly-suppressed smile. “Because, we’ve been over this. You needn’t share details of your sex life with other people.”

“Yes, but then we also talked about how loads of people discuss sex with their friends, and Mrs. Hudson is a friend, I suppose, so I’m rather unclear on where the arbitrary boundaries are set in all of this.”

John sighs. “I know. It is a bit confusing. But we’ll work on it, okay?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Fine.” And with that, he makes his way to the bathroom.

The shower feels _exquisite._ He spends several long minutes just standing idly under the hot spray, reveling in the way his muscles relax following the rigors he’d put them through the night before. Eventually, he shampoos and conditions his hair, soaps down his body, and has just started the slightly unpleasant undertaking of cleaning the lube and come from his backside when the shower curtain is unexpectedly pulled back and he finds himself in the company of a very naked, very mischievous-looking John Watson.

“John?”

“Why hello.”

“Um, hi. What are you doing? Isn’t Mrs. Hudson bringing Rosie up?”

“Apparently she’s in the middle of breakfast, so she’ll be up in a half hour or so. Figured I’d make the most of that time.”

“By commandeering my shower?”

“By getting you off again.” And before Sherlock has time to react, John has dropped to his knees and taken Sherlock’s rapidly-swelling cock into his mouth with gusto.

Which is how Sherlock comes to find himself panting desperately as he leans back against the cool tile of the wall, his right leg hoisted over John’s shoulder as John sucks his cock and fondles his balls, pleasuring Sherlock with unwavering devotion. Sherlock comes with a satisfied grunt and John swallows him down without hesitation before dropping his head to rest on Sherlock’s thigh, his hand withdrawing from Sherlock’s balls to rest on his own prick, which he jerks until he comes with a pleased-sounding hum.

They kiss lazily for a while after that, until the hot water runs out and they’re forced to dress and eat and resume the tedious act of being polite members of society. Mrs. H brings Rosie up and comments on Sherlock’s healthy glow, and Sherlock remembers to _not_ attribute it to the three orgasms he’d had that morning and instead makes up some drivel about catching up on sleep. John shoots him an approving smile, which Sherlock readily returns; he things he may just get the hang of this “appropriate conversation topics” thing, yet.

The rest of the day is rather predictable. Well, predictable aside from the fact that, for reasons Sherlock can’t quite discern, John seems _hellbent_ on wringing as many orgasms out of Sherlock as possible during any moment that they find themselves alone. 

Molly stops by for tea and a chat, and while she’s entertaining Rosie, John comes up with a thinly-veiled excuse to get Sherlock to the bedroom, whereupon he drops to his knees and fellates him then and there.

Later that afternoon, Sherlock is engrossed in an experiment in the kitchen when John comes downstairs from the nursery, where he’d just put Rosie down for her nap. He wraps his arms around Sherlock and plants a trail of kisses up his neck, but Sherlock is growing a bit inconvenienced; he’s in the middle of a rather delicate analysis of a sample of _Mesodinium chamaeleon_ he’d managed to bribe one of his old Cambridge acquaintances into sending him, and he’s not particularly keen on taking a pause.

“Honestly, John, I’m in the middle of an experiment. Can’t this wait?”

“Mmmm, it doesn’t really need to. You carry on. I’ll take care of it myself.” And with that, he reaches around to unfasten Sherlock’s trousers, taking his cock in hand and stroking him lazily. Sherlock doesn’t lift his eyes from the microscope… but he doesn’t put a stop to it, either.

Eventually, he’s aroused enough that it’s becoming rather difficult to remain focused on the single-celled organisms populating his microscope slide, and he’s about to capitulate and turn around when suddenly, John’s hands disappear. The next thing he knows, John is crawling under the table, wrapping his lips around Sherlock’s engorged prick, sucking him enthusiastically. Sherlock grips the coarse focus knob on his microscope rather harder than intended, but leans forward and forces himself to remain engaged with his specimen.

It’s… oh, it’s quite something, really. The dueling passions of science and pleasure, intersecting here as he performs his work at the table while John sucks and licks and fondles him obscenely beneath it, it’s a diametric opposition that is heady and consuming in its juxtaposition. He’s just narrowing in on his final observations of the specimen when he comes, his pleasure suddenly rocketing to the forefront of his consciousness, the light from the microscope seeming to intensify exponentially as his orgasms crests and he finds his release.

He hears John clamber up from beneath the table, but Sherlock still doesn’t lift his gaze from the eyepiece; after all, he mustn’t reward John for being such a _distraction._ But John just sidles up behind him, tucks his spent cock back into his trousers, fastens them, plops a kiss into his hair, and disappears into the sitting room.

Well. That was… unobjectionable.

By the time evening rolls around, Rosie’s in bed, a rather obscenely large order of carry-out curry has been consumed, and Sherlock supposes he shouldn’t be surprised when John drops to his knees once more in front of the sofa and begins to fumble with Sherlock’s fly, yet surprised he is.

“John? What are you doing?”

“Going to get you off again.”

“I… I mean, appreciate the sentiment, John, don’t get me wrong, but isn’t this getting a bit… excessive?”

John quirks an eyebrow at him. “Did Sherlock Holmes just call me excessive? You, the most sexually hedonistic creature I have ever met, think I’m giving you _too much oral sex for one day?”_

“No, it’s not too much, it’s just a bit… unexpected, I guess?”

John shoots him a placating grin. “Yeah, I’ll admit, I’m being a little overindulgent. We can talk about it in a bit. But let me suck you off again first, yeah?”

Sherlock pretends to mull it over, then gives a shrug. “I suppose. If you insist.”

And God, John makes it good. He’s always generous in his oral ministrations, but tonight, he’s particularly thorough, and by the time Sherlock is arching and wailing and releasing down John’s willing throat, he’s resolved to never question John’s motives again.

Afterwards, they sit on the sofa side by side, Sherlock leaning heavily into John’s arms as John absently cards his fingers through Sherlock’s curls.

Finally, John speaks. “So… is it alright if we talk about this?”

“About… what, exactly?” Sherlock is admittedly a bit confused; though he and John occasionally have post-mortems following particularly intense sessions, their activities the night before hadn’t really felt entirely outside their usual wheelhouse.

“About today. And last night. And just… how we’re feeling about things. I feel like I owe you a bit of an explanation about today.”

Sherlock chuckles. “Only if you want to. Or if you’d like to make a habit of fellating me multiple times a day, honestly, I’m not going to question it.”

John gives him a good-natured shove, but then resumes playing with Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock relaxes; usually if they need to have an intense Talk or negotiation, John will move the conversation to their chairs. If he’s willing to keep things casual on the sofa tonight, it can’t be anything too serious.

“So, how did you feel about… about last night? About the orgasm denial, specifically.”

Sherlock gives himself a moment to consider. “It was… intense. Perhaps a bit unexpectedly so. It was odd going to sleep after a session feeling frustrated and agitated instead of relaxed. But I was eventually able to override those sensations with the desire to submit to your authority, and that was enough to put me in a place where I could finally rest.”

“What about your reaction after you came this morning? You seemed pretty overwhelmed.”

“I was. And that was unexpected as well. The release provided a sense of relief, but I think I was rather thrown off at waking up still in a… well, still in an altered headspace, for lack of a better way to describe it. I’m not used to feeling that way for long periods of time; usually when we’re having our longer sessions, I’m awake and engaged for the duration of it. It was unsettling to fall asleep and wake up and still feel like I was seeking a conclusion that was beyond my reach. It made me feel… desperate? Or maybe… helpless?” Sherlock is struggling to find the right words, and John gives him a reassuring squeeze.

“I think I understand. It was pretty overwhelming for me, too. I’m not sure I liked it much.”

Sherlock tips his head up to meet John’s eyes. “Really? You were so enthusiastic about trying it!”

John laughs in a self-deprecating sort of way, shaking his head a bit wistfully. “I know, right? I mean, it seemed like such a logical progression of things: we’re both into me edging you, we enjoy long sessions that test your endurance, we’ve been looking into pushing the boundaries of our power exchange a bit… it just felt like a natural next step, you know?” Sherlock nods, intent on hearing John out. “And last night when we went to sleep, I was enjoying it, to an extent. But today, waking up to find you still a bit out of it, instead of comforted and content like you normally are after a session… it threw me off. And even after I let you come, I still felt like shit all day, and I initially couldn’t quite put my finger on why, but I think I’ve figured it out.”

“And?”

“It was guilt. I’ve felt guilty all day.”

Sherlock is perplexed. “But… I consented to the denial.” 

“Objectively, I know that. But if nothing else, this has made me realise how _important_ your pleasure is to me when we’re unwinding. Watching you orgasm while I’m dominating you… to be honest, it’s one of the greatest privileges in my life. It’s… extraordinary, it’s unlike anything else I’ve had with anyone, _ever._ Leaving that part out of our session just made it feel… incomplete.”

Sherlock nods thoughtfully. “So… not something we’ll be repeating any time soon?”

John laughs. “Nah. Think we can strike that one from the list.”

“Noted.” Sherlock pauses, unsure of whether to push the conversation a bit further, but finally decides there won’t be a better time. “So… how did you feel about… the rest of it?”

John blinks down at him, his brow furrowed. “The rest of it?”

“You know, with the… with the waiter?”

John throws his head back and laughs. “Oh, Christ, I’d actually forgotten about that! Jesus, that’s how we got this whole thing started, wasn’t it? I mean… honestly, the fact that I’d put it out of my mind completely…. That’s got to be a good thing, right?”

“I suppose?”

“Was it… was it what you wanted?”

Sherlock pauses, intent on making his answer as diplomatic as possible. “I could have used a bit… more.”

“More? More… sex?” John sounds skeptical.

“More… um, reference to my… belonging to you.” Sherlock can feel his cheeks flushing, and he can feel John shifting uncertainly beside him. They’re both still getting used to saying these things out loud, but hell, it hasn’t failed them yet. In for a penny…

“All… Alright, then. Noted. Next time I’ll make sure to… drive the point home, as it were.”

“Next time?” Sherlock can’t keep the hopeful note out of his voice.

John grins down at him. “Next time.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do heed the tags! This chapter gets into some rougher stuff, so if that's not for you, now's the time to tap out. Please also note that there's gunplay and breathplay involved, both of which were previously negotiated in earlier installments. I don't go over the terms of those negotiations here, but in sum, this exchange is safe, sane, and consensual.

John drains the final dregs of his pint as Greg hurls a colourful string of expletives at the television mounted behind the bar. They’d finally had a chance to meet up to watch a match at their usual pub for the first time in months, so inevitably the club they both supported had taken the opportunity to lose in an unprecedentedly spectacular fashion. Despite the catastrophe unravelling on the screen, John can’t bring himself to be too riled up about it; he’s come to realise that being a family man meant any opportunity to be out in a pub getting pissed with one’s mate instead of at home attempting to sleep-train an ornary 2-year-old was an opportunity that must be treated with _reverence_ and _respect,_ and by God, he was committed to doing just that. Of course, in this case _reverence_ and _respect_ was synonymous with “four lagers and a shot,” but that was beside the point entirely…

Greg lowers his forehead to the bartop with a defeated _thunk._ “Abysmal. Humiliating. A thrashing for the ages.” He sounds so forlorn John almost laughs out loud.

“For fuck’s sake, Greg, buck up. Look at the bright side: It’s Friday night, I’m off diaper duty, you’re not on another blind date with some woman you met on Grinder--”

Greg lifts his head reluctantly to interject. “Tinder, Watson. Tinder.”

John rolls his eyes. “How the hell am I supposed to keep these dating apps straight? I’ve lost count of how many there are, aren’t they all the same bloody thing?”

Greg shoots him an exasperated glance. “No, Mr. ‘I’m A Smug Settled Bastard Who’s Getting Laid On A Regular Basis,’ they are _not_ all the same. Please, for the love of God, spare me the indignity and do not go around saying I’m meeting people on Grindr.”

John shrugs and signals the bartender for another round. “Okay, fine, whatever. My point is, we’re out of the house, unsupervised, no curfew, like the free-spirited, carefree, fun-loving youths that we are. Let’s not let these arseholes in Exeter ruin our evening.”

“Fine,” Greg mumbles glumly, though he seems marginally cheered as the bartender places a fresh pint in front of him. “Honestly, I’m just chuffed to have a weekend off for once.”

“Yeah, what’s the occasion? Last I heard they were running you ragged.”

“I’d say the brass developed some soft of moral conscience, but honestly, it’s Aaron - did Sherlock tell you about him?”

“The new guy? Sherlock mentioned him, but said they hadn’t met yet. Is he officially assigned to your team?”

“Tragically, no. Honestly, the man is a godsend - he passed his entrance exams three months ago and they’ve been kind of floating him around in different departments, looking for the best fit. He’s sharp as a tac and takes on double the casework of the other officers and seems to have less interest in sleep than Sherlock bloody Holmes, which I think you’ll agree is saying something.”

John raises his eyebrows, admittedly impressed. “Is he fresh out of Uni?” The vigors of youth seem a long-forgotten memory; most nights, John’s falling asleep on the sofa by 10PM these days.

Greg shakes his head. “Nah, didn’t Sherlock tell you? He’s military, like you, but just moved here from Australia. He was in some special forces unit down there, served in Afghanistan as well. Figured the two of you would get on like old chums.”

John makes a non-committal sound of affirmation. Though he’s all for meeting his fellow vets, he’s found that the Special Forces lads tended to be a particular breed that he didn’t much care for: Brash, machismo, arrogant, and completely dismissive of him as soon as they discovered that he was a mere _medic_ (a plebian position, in their own self-affirmed, highly-esteemed opinion). But still, if Greg liked him, John figures he may as well give him the benefit of the doubt.

“Either way, he’s been saving my arse these last few weeks. I’m praying they keep him on with me for a bit, though that may be wishful thinking, considering he hasn’t met Sherlock yet, and that may have… well, a slightly _detrimental_ influence on his opinion of my team, no offense.”

John shrugs it off; he knows better than to take it personally. “None taken. Regardless, I’ll tell Sherlock to play nice next time we take a case with him.”

“And you think he’ll listen to you?”

“I have my ways.” John waggles his eyebrows as Greg makes a rather juvenile face and attempts to hide his blush in his pint glass.

It’s pure serendipity that four days later, Greg texts Sherlock imploring him for help on a new case.

Well, ‘new’ isn’t quite the right word for it-- which Sherlock dutifully explains to John in the back of a taxi on their way to the crime scene (John had recently started demanding an actual debriefing in exchange for participation in Sherlock’s cases, and Sherlock was begrudgingly learning to acquiesce). In 2007, a 14-year-old boy named Jack Orrington, described by his teachers as a burgeoning maths genius, had hopped a train from Doncaster to London and was never seen again. After a few months, the case had gone cold, and local law enforcement had written it off as another story of a troubled youth falling through the cracks; despite his academic achievements, the boy had apparently begun dabbling in drugs prior to his disappearance, and officers assumed he’d simply fallen victim to addiction.

But now, years later, there had been a rather perplexing string of home robberies. The common thread was that each involved the emptying of a home safe-- all the same make and model, and all distributed by a company that used digital cryptography to constantly remotely update the access codes to the safes.

A hair had been discovered at the scene of the latest robbery, and lo and behold, forensic analysis revealed an exact DNA match to the missing teen from a decade ago.

Sherlock was obviously intrigued.

They arrive at the crime scene (a posh, modern flat in a West Brompton dockside development) and Sherlock disappears in a rather theatrical flourish of coattail and self-importance, leaving John to meander about feeling predictably useless (considering that there wasn’t a body on-hand for him to at least to _pretend_ to examine, and Greg’s nowhere to be found). He concentrates on making himself scarce, finally retreating into the kitchen, which is still somehow impossibly crowded.

He recognises one of the detectives loitering about from a case he and Sherlock had worked a few months back-- _Navarre,_ that was her name. He sidles up alongside her.

“Isn’t this a bit of overkill for a simple home invasion?”

She gives him a withering look. “Haven’t you heard? Apparently the homeowner is some political hotshot, and there were some _sensitive_ materials lifted from the safe. ‘Course, they won’t tell us bollocks about what those materials might be, but hell, we’re just the cops, what do we know?” She gives an exasperated eye roll. “Either way, it’s all hands on deck--”

“Oy! No press!”

The shout rings out through the kitchen loud enough to make everyone jump, and John whirls on the spot to find himself face to face with…

Well, he’s not quite sure how to describe him.

Because John is a straight man. Aside from his attraction to Sherlock, he’s never felt sexually drawn to another male, and today isn’t any different.

But he can objectively state for the record that the man towering over him is a goddamned _vision_ of masculine prowess.

He’s impossibly tall-- John’s initial estimate puts him at 6’4 or perhaps a bit over-- with broad shoulders and muscular arms that are annoyingly visible through the bulging fabric of his well-fitted blazer. He has deep auburn hair cut just slightly longer than military regulation, and a smattering of freckles that seem almost humourously out of place on his chiseled, manly features.

He looks like a fucking catalogue model for an outdoor-wear company.

And he’s glaring daggers at John.

John collects himself and plasters a placating smile on his face. “Aaron, right? Hi there. Not press, actually. I’m John Watson, I’m here with Sherlock Holmes? DI Lestrade sent--”

Aaron’s expression breaks instantly into one of almost amateur eagerness. “Oh! Sherlock! Greg mentioned him, is he here?”

“Um, yeah, he’s just--”

“Take me to him, will you? I’ve been dying to meet him since Greg told me about him, he _raves_ about the man, can’t wait to meet him for myself!”

_I’m not his bloody social secretary,_ John thinks saltily to himself, but manages not to let his smile waiver. After all, no use getting on the wrong foot, especially if Greg’s angling to make this _Aaron_ character a permanent part of the team.

“Sure thing. Right this way.” John hazards a guess as to Sherlock’s whereabouts-- he’s surely moved past the safe by now and would be ferreting about the bedroom, looking for scandalous insights into the victim’s inner workings. 

His intuition pays off. Sherlock is indeed in the bedroom, standing before Lestrade and two other officers John doesn’t recognise, rapidly ratting off a series of deductions so fast John’s not entirely sure his mouth is moving.

“...due to their rather short-sighted use of a Feister cipher. Clever, under normal conditions, but considering the remote access the servers had to the safe authentication hardware, the redundancy of the algorithm used in the encryption and decryption process left the assets rife for a breach.”

“But I thought they used Kerberos Architecture and applied the corresponding protocol.” John startles as Aaron speaks up from where he’s standing next to him; John had admittedly already glazed over, if he was being completely honest with himself, and the fact that Aaron was following _any_ of this took him rather by surprise.

Sherlock’s head whips in their direction as his eyes narrow, a predator zeroing in on its prey. In three strides he’s across the room, and John’s slightly amused to note that Sherlock is forced to stare _up_ at the subject of his ire, for once in his damned life.

“True enough. But if the KDC was compromised from the central server location--”

“No amount of dual authentication could have prevented it.” Aaron’s eyes widen as he utters the words. “Of _course._ That’s… that’s brilliant.”

And Sherlock fucking _blushes._

Suddenly, the room is vignetted in a rather alarming shade of red. John vaguely registers Aaron and Sherlock launching into another complex exchange of such complicated technical jargon that John’s fairly certain the conjunctions are the only words being spoken in the English language. Either way, he can’t hear much over the roaring in his ears.

A tug at his elbow snaps him from his revery, and he processes Greg’s proximity as he leans in conspiratorially. “John, let’s leave them to it, it’s all Greek to me. Besides, could use your help--we found something in the bathroom we wanted you to take a look at.”

John follows him, perplexed, pausing only momentarily to glance back over his shoulder at where Sherlock and Aaron are engaged in a rapid-fire exchange, standing what John feels is just a _bit_ too close for comfort.

Luckily, his sour mood is quickly forgotten when Greg reveals what they’d found in the bathroom: prescription bottles of methylphenobarbital. _Lots_ of them.

“That’s weird as hell, honestly, Greg. This stuff went off the market in 2001. Prior to that, it was marketed as an anticonvulsant, but I can’t imagine why an MP who lives alone with his wife would need this volume of it, let alone leave it sitting around for a decade and a half.”

Lestrade nods and jots down some notes in his pad, then excuses himself to go deal with the growing mob of press gathered outside. John has just resigned himself to more aimless wandering when Sherlock appears in the doorframe, cheeks flushed, clearly high on the thrill of the case.

“Come along, John. We need to go down to the Yard immediately. I need access to their database as soon as possible.” 

He all but drags John outside and into a cab, where they lapse into silence as Sherlock taps away frantically at his phone.

“So. You didn’t want to bring your new best friend Aaron with you instead of your boring old blogger?”

“Don’t be petty, John. It’s unbecoming.”

“Still. You two seem to have taken quite a shine to each other.”

Sherlock doesn’t look up from his phone. “For fuck’s sake, make up your mind already.”

“Excuse me?” John hadn’t realised it until now, but he’s rather itching for a row, and Sherlock’s dismissiveness is doing nothing to dissuade him.

_“Make up your mind._ Day in and day out, it’s ‘Be polite, Sherlock! Can’t you just be nice? Wouldn’t it be easier if you just got on with people? Why must you be so abrasive?’ So for once I’m being _nice_ and I’m making an _effort_ and you’re practically green with jealousy about it, so I am asking you to _make up your damn mind.”_

“Well, it’s not doing you any favours that the individual you _happen_ to have _coincidentally_ decided to be nice to looks like a Calvin Klein underwear model. I suspect your motives may not be entirely altruistic.”

“Oh, please, John, you really think so little of me? For your information, Aaron is well-studied in a wide variety of elements of cryptography. Did you know he did a Fulbright fellowship in the US to work with Chester Nez, one of the original Navajo Code Talkers?”

Of _course_ he did. Of _course_ he had to be gorgeous _and_ brilliant. Fucking bloody fantastic.

“No, Sherlock, I wasn’t aware of that, because we exchanged about 20 words total between us, and half of those were him cutting me off to ask when I could introduce him to you.”

Sherlock smirks into his phone. “Ooooh, you _hate_ this, hmm? You’re always Mr. Polite, Mr. Popular, Mr. Everybody-Loves-Me. You’re just bitter he won’t give you the time of day! Adorable, John, really, but I must ask you to keep things professional, for the sake of the case.”

John wants to rip his bloody phone from his hand and throw it out the window.

“I’m not _jealous,_ Sherlock, I’m just saying…”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “What? Just because I’ve met a man with brains _and_ brawn, I have to pretend to detest him just so no one’s feelings get hurt? I’m not allowed to play favourites?”

“The hell do you mean, _he’s got brains and brawn?_ Are you implying I’ve only got one or the other? And for that matter, which of the two is it you’re insinuating I’m lacking?”

Sherlock finally pockets his phone and gives John a withering glance. “Look, John, you have all the brains and brawn I’ll ever need. If it’ll stoke your fragile masculine ego, as soon as the case is over, I’ll let you roger me senseless whilst reciting the Latin names for my skeletal structure while I scream and moan and beg like a wanton harlot. Deal?”

Despite himself, John cracks a grin, and the tension between them dissolves in an instant. John’s being ridiculous, he knows this, he has no idea why he’d been reacting so strongly. 

“Deal.” For some reason, he feels considerably better.

But the respite is short-lived. The next few days are… interesting, to say the least. The case progresses swimmingly, but John can’t help but feel that the entire damn world is upside down.

Because Greg’s let Aaron take the lead on the case, and before John can even process what’s happening, Sherlock and Aaron are thick as thieves, cracking inside jokes and texting one another theories at all hours of the night. Despite the fact that John has never known Sherlock to be anything other than dismissively standoffish when confronted with an outsider, something about Aaron seems to have sliced straight through his defenses. Sherlock treats Aaron as a _resource._ As an _equal._

And that within itself wouldn’t have been so bad, if John didn’t hate Aaron _with every fibre of his being._

Because as predicted, Aaron was as dismissive and cavalier towards John as he had anticipated. He was constantly taking the piss out of John for virtually _everything:_ his rank, his Army affiliation (as if the _Special Air Service Regiment_ was that superior, John’s certain they must all be hacks), his jumpers, his _damn height_ (that last one had just about earned him a punch to the jaw, had Greg not intervened at just the right moment)--it was always under the guise of just joking about, but John’s finding it hard not to take it personally. By the time the case was rolling into its second week, John had never felt more useless, not to mention perpetually irritated. 

The only silver lining in the entire situation, as far as John could figure it, is that Aaron seemed to be the _epitome_ of the heterosexual masculinity; if he noticed Sherlock ogling his backside or standing a bit closer than socially acceptable or giving him one too many conspiratorial winks, he certainly didn’t let on. Regardless, watching Sherlock act all buddy-buddy with a total stranger irks John to no end, Aaron’s sexual orientation cold comfort indeed.

John was seriously considering telling Sherlock he was bowing out from the case altogether when Sherlock made The Breakthrough. An underground ring of high-profile cryptographers paid under the table by a corrupt branch of government had finally met its match in Jack Orrington, who’d somehow managed to undermine the entire operation while weaning himself off the potent drug cocktail the ring’s enablers had kept him on for over a decade. They’d arrested the involved government officials in a rather flashy bust at the house of Parliament (John noted Greg had worn his best suit that day, undoubtedly looking forward to getting some good press for once), brought down the inner circle of the cryptography ring, and, in a final _coup de grace_ , located Jack Orrington (living under an assumed identity in Leeds) and arranged for him to be reunited with his family, name cleared.

Not bad for a week’s work. It was one of the most satisfying cases in John’s recent memory.

And of course as soon as the case is properly wrapped, John and Sherlock indulge the _other_ satisfying element to all of this with a rather spectacular session of _unwinding._

It’s a marathon for the ages, John taking Sherlock no fewer than five times in the span of five hours, the first of which is right there at the base of the staircase leading up to their flat. In what he could only describe as a moment of unparallelled genius, John had started stashing a few packs of lube in the innermost pocket of his jacket, and the scandalized sound Sherlock makes as John spins him to face the wall, pulls down his trousers, and sticks two slick fingers inside of him without any warning is enough to render John dizzy with arousal. Mrs. Hudson had gone to visit her sister for the weekend, but John had _conveniently_ forgotten to mention that to Sherlock, who struggles valiantly to hold in his moans as John fucks him senseless up against the wall not three feet from her doorframe. 

The rest of the session is just as delightful, John stripping Sherlock as soon as they manage to stumble over the threshold of their flat before tying his wrists with one of the lengths of jute rope they’ve started employing at times like these. He ties Sherlock up in a different location in each room of the flat, fucks him, then leaves him there (naked, leaking, shaking, so _gorgeous,_ so goddamn gorgeous) for the better part of an hour before coming back to retrieve him and making him crawl to their next location.

John rounds off the session by christening the bathroom (looping the rope through the exposed hot water pipe that runs from the ceiling, spinning Sherlock to face the mirror, and rogering him mercilessly as he stares gobsmacked at his own debauched reflection before coming completely untouched). And then it’s time for aftercare: he rinses Sherlock down in the shower, cleanses his body with sandalwood soap, checks his hole for tearing (there is none, just a rather obscene amount of semen, which delights John to no end), shampoos his hair, then finally helps him out of the shower, towels him off, and deposits him in bed for his usual 14-Hour-Post-Case-Sleep-Of-The-Dead.

Overall, it is a very good day indeed. John’s fairly confident he’s fucked Aaron right out of Sherlock’s Mind Palace altogether.

At least, he _was_ fairly certain that was the case, considering that Sherlock doesn’t mention a word of him for two full weeks. But then John staggers into the flat one idle Friday, brain fried from a long day at the surgery, and makes to plop down on the sofa only to have Sherlock catch him by the wrist and haul him back to his feet.

“Nope, none of that. We’re going out tonight.”

John blinks, confused. He’s fairly certain they’ve got nothing on the calendar, and it’s not like Sherlock to suggest a spontaneous date. “We… are?”

“Yes. Aaron’s been assigned a permanent post at the Yard, and we’re all going out to celebrate.”

John can feel his temperature elevate _ever so slightly_ at the mention of Aaron. “Who’s ‘we,’ in this scenario?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “You. Me. Lestrade. Aaron, obviously. And a bunch of the other Yarders. You know. The ones. With… names.”

John narrows his eyes. _“‘The ones with names?’_ Honestly, Sherlock, I’ve been imploring you to make nice and socialise with these people for years, and _not once_ have you indulged me without acting like I was pulling your teeth. And now all it takes is a text from your _man-crush_ and you’re all in? _And wearing your Date Night shirt, I might add, don’t think I didn’t bloody notice.”_

Sherlock puts on a great act of looking morally wounded, but John notices there’s a hint of colour rising in his cheeks. “Please, John, it’s nothing so petty as a schoolboy crush. Aaron’s been assigned a new position, as a liaison between the counterterrorism task force at the Yard and the corresponding branch at MI5. It’s a very elite posting, certainly cause for celebration.”

John pauses in his attack. “So we… we won’t be working with him on Greg’s team?”

“Tragically, no, though I knew from the start he was grossly overqualified to be waffling about with those morons.”

“Oy! Greg is our _friend.”_

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Not Lestrade, obviously, his _team._ Donovan and Big Nose and Grey Hair and Neck Mole and the rest of them.”

“Are those their security names?”

“Shut up.”

John can’t help but snicker. Something about knowing that they’re not going to be working with Aaron on a more permanent basis is making him feel considerably more cheerful about the whole proposition.

“What about Rosie?”

“Mrs. H volunteered to take her for the night, so I dropped her off downstairs.”

John raises an eyebrow. “My, look at you, taking the initiative. Being a bit presumptuous, mmm? I could have had plans, you know.”

“Please, John, the only plans you ever have on Friday nights are putting Rosie to bed, ordering carry-out, watching that horrid baking show you love so much, and then subtly attempting to see if I’m up for giving you a blow job.”

“Those are _perfectly valid plans,_ Sherlock, how dare you insinuate that my social itinerary is anything short of dazzling?”

They’re both laughing now, and John can’t help but appreciate just how lovely Sherlock looks in his purple Date Night shirt. That damn thing has made John want to snog him senseless since the first time he saw him in it, all those years ago… but now, he can act on that impulse without hesitation, and he indulges himself, bringing Sherlock close and pressing their lips together, carding his fingers through his soft curls. Sherlock makes a contented little hum into his mouth before pulling away.

“Come along, John, you’re going to make us late. Go change.”

“Change? What’s wrong with what I’m wearing now?”

“Nothing, if you don’t mind Aaron making jokes about you raiding his grandmother’s wardrobe.”

“So you _did_ notice him mocking me during the case! I thought you were so wrapped up in your own brain you weren’t listening to what he was saying, which is why you didn’t stop him.”

“On the contrary, John, the reason I didn’t stop him is because he is both hilarious and correct. Come on, I’ll help you pick something out.”

They arrive at the pub to a raucous greeting, the other Yarders apparently having gotten there considerably earlier and therefore on several drinks’ head start. There are a few light-hearted jabs at Sherlock for attending for once, but they’re all good-natured and Sherlock takes them in stride, so John lets his hackles down, orders them some drinks, and joins in the revelry.

It’s a shockingly pleasant evening, overall. John catches up with Greg, Dimmock, and Navarre (he actually finds Navarre to be excellent company; years ago, he’s pretty sure he’d have been contemplating asking her out) before getting pulled into a darts tournament with three of the younger detectives, which quickly devolves into a rather competitive drinking game. He subtly keeps an eye on Sherlock throughout, but he’s surprised to find Sherlock seems to be holding his own; John observes him in conversation with no fewer than three different Yarders, none of whom look offended, scandalised, or homicidal, so John reasons Sherlock must be behaving himself for once in his life.

He’s not sure exactly what time it is when he saunters up to the bar to close his tab. The place is clearing out, and he says a quick farewell to Greg (who’s on his way out the door) before signaling the bartender for his check.

“Oy, Johnny boy!” A hand claps down on his shoulder with wholly more force than necessary, and John closes his eyes briefly, willing himself to show restraint. He plasters on his standard placating smile and turns to face Aaron, who’s beaming down at him broadly, glassy-eyed and rosy-cheeked.

“Hi, Aaron. Congrats on the post!”

“Ah, cheers, mate. I’m pretty chuffed about it. It’ll be great to be able to use some of my special forces training in my day-to-day work, you know? I mean, not that you’d really know, since Sherlock tells me you’re mainly curing colds and the like, but--”

“Yeah, Aaron, I know what you mean.”

“Sweet, yeah. Hey, I’m really glad you’re here.”

John’s admittedly intrigued. Though he and Aaron had been cordial enough throughout the case, it wasn’t like they’d become bosom buddies-- at best, John had tolerated his participation, and attempted to turn a blind eye to Sherlock’s infatuation.

“Euh… thanks?”

“I mean, I wanted to… I wanted to ask you something.” Aaron leans conspiratorially and lowers his voice a bit. “I wasn’t going to ask before, if there’s a chance we’d be working together, but now that we’re not… do you know if Sherlock is seeing anyone?”

John is perplexed. “Are you trying to set him up with your sister or something?”

Aaron barks out a laugh. “With _Sherlock?_ That man’s clearly gayer than a unicorn at a Pride parade. Don’t tell me you hadn’t noticed, haven’t you two been working together for ages?”

John waves him off dismissively. “Of course I knew, I just don’t make a habit of outing him to our colleagues without his consent.”

Aaron looks appropriately repentant. “No, of course not, I get that. So, no, I’m not asking for my sister. I’m asking for me.”

John’s eyes snap up to meet Aaron’s, and he’s fairly certain he feels his blood pressure go up several points in a matter of nanoseconds. He’s hit by what he concludes is a rather potent wave of testosterone, telling him to _protect, defend, deflect._

“You’re… gay?” John narrows his eyes suspiciously. He seemed… _so straight._

Suddenly, Aaron’s pulling himself up to his full (rather imposing) height, towering over John in a way that would make a weaker-willed man recoil, but John stands his ground. “Yeah, I’m gay. And I served in the military. Do you have a fucking problem with that?”

John holds up his hands in supplication. “No, not at all.”

“Good. I’d hate for us to have a problem, here.” Aaron’s tone is threatening, and John can feel his hackles raising. He does _not_ appreciate the defensive approach Aaron’s taking, though John could (were he perhaps more sober) _objectively_ understand it-- serving in Special Ops while harbouring a secret like that must not have been a cake walk.

But still.

That’s hardly the point.

“We don’t have a problem here. But Sherlock’s not available. He’s in a long-term relationship.”

Aaron lets out a condescending snort, catching John entirely off-guard. _“He’s_ in a long-term relationship? Fuck off, mate, you’re mad.”

“Why the hell shouldn’t he be?” John’s completely blindsided by Aaron’s reaction to all this, and he’s suddenly itching to escalate the situation. His face feels unnaturally hot.

“Well, because… because he’s a freak, isn’t he? Everyone says so.”

“And yet you’re asking me if he’s single.”

“Yeah, for a good shag! The freakiest ones are always the filthiest, you know? With a brain like that, I bet he’d be up for some twisted shit--”

...Aaaaaand that’s done it. The next thing John knows, he’s winding up to throw a punch squarely into Aaron’s ruggedly handsome nose.

(Un?)luckily, someone catches his wrist from behind, and he whirls around to find Sherlock glaring daggers at him. “John! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m about to punch this smug arsehole in the face. So if you wouldn’t mind stepping off, I’d be much obliged.”

“Why are you going to punch Aaron in the face?”

“Because I said I wanted to fuck you.” Aaron’s voice is low and even, and both John and Sherlock turn to stare up at him.

“I said I wanted to fuck you, and perhaps I was a bit crude about it, but your hothead of a partner here decided the appropriate homophobic response would be to defend your honour by punching me in the face.”

John turns to see Sherlock’s reaction. He’s shocked to see that Sherlock looks not pleased nor offended, but simply mildly amused. He licks his lips and casts his eyes to meet John’s. “Is that so?”

There’s a heat in his gaze that John can’t misread.

Oh.

_Oh._

_The game is on._

John transforms his expression into one of abject remorse. “Sorry, darling. You know how defensive I get about you.”

Sherlock tips his head to the side, as though he’s evaluating John’s words, but John knows better - he’s discretely revealing the chain of John’s dog tags, which hang resolutely around Sherlock’s neck. “I thought we agreed, John, I’m not yours to defend.”

Sherlock returns his gaze to a dumbstruck Aaron, and shoots him a coy smile.

“I have to apologise on John’s behalf, Aaron. He’s a bit territorial sometimes. He rather forgets that I have a will of my own.”

A sly smile is slowly breaking across Aaron’s face, and his eyes twinkle with amusement. “Ahhhh, so it’s _you,_ Johnny boy? Look at us, couple’a undercover fairies serving with our nation’s finest.”

John bristles slightly at the insinuation, but he lets it roll off of him-- now’s not the time to parse words regarding his sexual orientation.

Instead, he offers a cavalier shrug. “I don’t believe that’s any of your damn business. Now, if you’ll excuse us, I’ll be taking Sherlock home--” He takes Sherlock by the upper arm, but Sherlock quickly pulls away, feigning belligerence.

“Excuse me, John, but that’s not for you to decide.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s not for you to decide who I go home with tonight.”

And _Christ, that, right there,_ sets John’s blood alight.

He wants to take Sherlock _down._ He wants to grab him and force him into the back of a taxi and tie him up with his own belt and then bring him back to the flat and dominate him until he’s fucked out and spent and bruised and beautiful and making those gorgeous little whimpering noises he only makes when he’s well and truly _under._

But _not yet._

“So you’re going home with _him?”_ John shoots Aaron a murderous glare, and Aaron grins smugly back at him.

Sherlock purses his lips. “I haven’t decided yet.”

Aaron steps in, taking Sherlock’s hand in his own. Even from where he stands, John can hear Sherlock’s breath hitch slightly as their eyes meet. “Anything I can do to help you make up your mind?”

A devilish grin spreads slowly across Sherlock’s face. 

_Oh, he’s got a plan._

“I believe there’s only one civilised way to go about this.”

Aaron leans in towards Sherlock. Close. Too close. John resists the urge to grab him and wrestle him away, instead forcing himself to focus on the way Sherlock’s peering up at him demurely through thick lashes. “And what’s that?”

“A good old-fashioned shootout.”

John rolls his eyes, unable to restrain himself from interjecting, the mood immediately broken. “For Christ’s sake, Sherlock, as dramatic as that would be, surely even _you_ realise that despite the fact we are affiliated with local law enforcement, we cannot draw pistols in the street at dawn like in some harlequin romance novel.”

Sherlock shoots him a leveling glare. “No. But I happen to think some discrete target practice in the alley out back might be entertaining indeed. Aaron’s got his weapon on him. And I would _very_ much like to see what you two military men are capable of.” He lowers his voice dangerously. “You know how I feel about a man in uniform.”

John raises his eyebrows incredulously. “Seriously?”

Sherlock shoots him a smirk. “Come on. Impress a boy.”

It’s a bad idea. It’s a very, _very_ bad idea. But somewhere between the pints and the proposition and Aaron’s arrogant fucking face, John has thrown his better judgement completely by the wayside, and he soon finds himself behind the pub watching Sherlock balance an empty beer bottle on top of a skip at the far end of the alley before striding back to stand before John and Aaron, giving them his most dazzling smile.

John imagines all the salacious things he’s going to do to him the moment they get home.

Sherlock gets down to business. “The rules, gentlemen: One shot each, from this distance. Winner takes all.”

Aaron looks skeptical. “Just one shot?”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “Problem?”

“Uh, no, just--”

“Considering our location and the late hour, I’d estimate we’ll be able to get off a maximum of two shots before anyone realises it’s not a car backfiring. I’d suggest you both be quite quick about it.”

“And what if neither of us hits it?” Aaron’s looking increasingly intrigued by the second.

“Well then it looks like you’re both going home with nothing but your hand for company.”

“And if we do hit it?” Aaron licks his lips.

Sherlock gives him a coy grin. “Use your imagination.”

“Mmm-mmm, none of that, Holmes. I’m putting my job on the line here by letting a civvy handle a government-issued firearm. I need to know it’ll be worth my while. So what’s on the table, here?”

Sherlock gives him a heated gaze. “Everything.”

Aaron swallows. “Everything?”

Sherlock lowers his voice to his deepest baritone rumble. “Whatever you want. I’m yours for the night.”

“Fuckin’ ace.” And with that, Aaron pulls out his weapon and flips off the safety.

John barely has time (or the presence of mind) to cover his ears before Aaron fires. It’s _obscenely_ loud, and John jumps despite himself before swearing under his breath as the echoes fade away into the silence of the alley.

The beer bottle is still standing resolutely on top of the skip, but it had clearly been a near-miss; it rattles slightly with the reverberations before coming to a standstill.

Aaron issues a string of expletives and turns to hand the gun to John, who steps up and plants his feet. He raises it and takes aim, his finger resting lightly on the trigger.

He throws one sideways glance to meet Sherlock’s blazing jade-green eyes: unblinking, unwavering, and sure.

John grins, and turns back to find his target.

His hand doesn’t shake.

\------------

_“Oh, God, John, please, fuck, fuuuuuuck--”_

John moves his hand faster over the bulge in Sherlock’s trousers. Sherlock had been tenting them obscenely since John dragged him triumphantly out of the alley, and here in the back of the cab, John is determined to keep them that way.

“Don’t you dare come.” He keeps his voice low and demanding in Sherlock’s ear, and Sherlock hitches a high-pitched, breathy whine as his hips grind his throbbing length into John’s attentive palm.

_“Christ, John, please, I’m close, I’m too close, I’m going to--”_

“Keep your _fucking_ voice down. We’re not here to give a free show to the cabbie. Maybe these will keep that mouth of yours occupied.” John yanks his dog tags from where they’re hanging around Sherlock’s neck and pries Sherlock’s jaw open before stuffing them roughly inside. Sherlock issues an obscene-sounding choked-off sob, but manages to keep them there.

Satisfied, John returns his free hand not occupied with stimulating Sherlock’s erection to the base of Sherlock’s neck, where he tangles his fingers into the mess of curls gathered at his nape and _pulls._

Sherlock all but bows off of the back seat, hips thrusting desperately against the meagre friction John is providing him, eyes watering as his follicles register the pain of John’s ministrations. His cock gets impossibly harder, and John chuckles.

Christ, he is a _vision_ like this, horny and desperate and so unlike the man John knows in his everyday life. Sometimes at the start of their sessions, it still takes John by surprise. Even though by now he’s come to expect how fully Sherlock lets himself be taken apart, there are moments when John isn’t quite in his dominant headspace yet, and he’s stricken by just how much _power_ he has over Sherlock. It makes him feel nearly giddy with anticipation.

But now’s not the time for that. John needs to keep his wits about him. After all, they hadn’t planned on having a session tonight; they hadn’t just wrapped a case, nor is it Date Night, and as a result, John hasn’t had the opportunity to spend hours (or, sure, sometimes _days_ or _weeks)_ fastidiously plotting all the things he’s about to do to Sherlock. This one will be off the cuff.

He’s not nervous. He doesn’t get nervous very often anymore, usually only at times Sherlock’s asked him to be rough and John worries he’ll push him a bit too hard. Even more unnerving are the times that Sherlock loses himself altogether and simply _gives_ himself to John to try and put the pieces all back in the right place without any guidance whatsoever, but John’s been gaining more and more confidence as the months go by, and he finds he no longer hesitates at every turn. They’re in this together, and tonight, John is going to make it _so, so good_ for them.

Beneath his hands, Sherlock strains and twitches. He’s close to coming, John can tell, and he takes a moment to snake his hand lower, fondling Sherlock’s balls and then lightly pressing lower still, a promise of what’s to come. Sherlock spreads his legs helplessly, wordlessly begging John for more as he rocks his head from side to side, eyes squinted shut against the onslaught of stimulation. John quickly returns his hand to Sherlock’s shaft and resumes stroking him, and Sherlock lets out a full-body shudder as he tries to pull himself back from the cusp.

John strings him out on this plateau, reading each of Sherlock’s tells with flawless precision. The clench in Sherlock’s quads means his balls are tightening; John gives them a squeeze and a light tug to relieve the pressure. A ripple of muscle contractions down Sherlock’s abdomen indicates he’s about to release; John relinquishes his grip and pinches the head of Sherlock’s cock, staving off disaster. The sight of Sherlock’s fingernails digging into his own palms means he’s struggling not to cry out; John leans forward to lick against his lips until Sherlock opens them, granting John entry to swirl his tongue around his own tags resting inside. Everything Sherlock needs, John will provide.

_Everything._

All too soon, the cab is coming to a stop in front of 221B. John pulls away from Sherlock entirely (ignoring the indignant whimper he leaves in his wake) and murmurs into Sherlock’s ear.

“Go upstairs. Stand in the middle of the sitting room. Do not remove your clothes. Do not touch yourself. You’ll wait for my orders. Understood?” He pulls his tags gently from Sherlock’s mouth.

“Yes, John.” Sherlock’s voice is low and husky, tinged with desperation.

“Good. Go.”

Sherlock flees from the cab as if it’s on fire, and John takes his sweet time paying the cabbie (and makes sure to include a little extra tip-- the man had made no mention of the activities going on in the back seat, for which John is exceptionally grateful).

When he finally trudges up the stairs and makes his way into their flat, he doesn’t even hazard a glance in Sherlock’s direction-- he knows if there’s one thing that turns Sherlock into a needy ball of _want,_ it’s being ignored, and John’s content to make him wait it out. 

He fills a glass with water and a straw and takes it to the bedroom, where he places it on the nightstand. He throws the duvet off the bed, then he gathers a few crucial items before making his way back down the hall, finally entering the sitting room.

And Jesus _Christ,_ Sherlock is gorgeous.

Despite being completely clothed, he looks like some sort of pin-up. His hair is mussed and his suit is disheveled and he’s sporting an erection so prominent it makes John’s own cock throb in sympathy. His face is open and earnest, written over with a layer of _yearning_ that makes John feel hot and tight all over. 

John can’t help but grin. “Hi there, gorgeous.”

Sherlock’s lip quirks up ever so slightly. “Hi, John.”

John lets the smile fall from his face as he reaches behind himself to the waistband of his jeans and pulls out his (unloaded) gun, which he aims straight at Sherlock’s head. “You’ll be calling me ‘Captain’ from here on out. Get on your fucking knees.”

Sherlock drops so fast it’s almost humorous, a needy whine blossoming from him as he stares up at John, an overwhelmed expression on his face.

John blinks down at him dispassionately, keeping the gun level. Sherlock is trembling on the floor, and Christ, John could come in his pants right now just looking at him, but no, patience, _patience._

“Now that’s more like it. Here’s the thing, _darling:_ I need you to explain to me just _what the fuck you were thinking, offering yourself to another man. Were you going to let him have you? Hmm? Is that what you want?”_

Sherlock can’t keep the tremble from his voice. “No, J-Captain. _No._ I’m yours, only yours, I knew you’d win me--”

“WIN you?” John throws his head back and cackles, but keeps the gun raised. “Oh, sweetheart, that’s rich. Because when I see you like this, love, I know the truth: _I’ve already won._ You’re never going to let another man have you, do you understand me?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Who took your virginity?”

“You, Captain.”

“That’s right. And that means I’m the only man who’s ever been inside your arse, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“I’m the only man who’s ever put my come inside you?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“That’s right, and you can be _goddamn certain it’s going to stay that way._ So tonight I’m going to give you a lovely little reminder of just _who exactly you belong to,_ to make sure that fact doesn’t happen to slip out of that big beautiful brain of yours ever. _Again.”_

_“Yes, Captain.”_ Sherlock’s shaking so hard John’s almost concerned for him, and his eyes are brimming over with tears. John decides to throw him a bone, in a manner of speaking.

“Hands behind your head. Open your mouth.” 

Sherlock complies without hesitation, and John strides across the room before grabbing a fistful of his hair and twisting it, forcing him to kneel upright. Sherlock gasps, but he doesn’t struggle, and John shoves the barrel of the gun in to his mouth before he can hesitate.

“Suck it. Make it good.”

And _fuck,_ seeing Sherlock like this should be goddamn _illegal._ He closes his eyes and fellates the gun with pornographic intensity, sucking it down like it’s his last act on earth. His plush cupid’s-bow lips juxtapose so beautifully against the metal, John wills himself to take a mental picture to keep in his own Mind Shack forever. Just when John thinks it can’t get much better, Sherlock starts making obscene little whimpering noises and lapping at the muzzle before sinking down and practically deepthroating the whole thing.

John knows he can’t hold out much longer. He pulls the gun from Sherlock’s lips (and Jesus, there’s a string of saliva that drips from the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, that’s _filthy, obscene)_ and lets go of Sherlock’s hair before sticking his fingers into his mouth.

“Lick. They’re covered in powder burns thanks to your little stunt back there. Clean me off.” Sherlock licks and sucks at them with fervent intensity, and John watches with a dispassionate expression, careful not to reveal the fact that this is the most _erotic fucking thing he’s ever seen._

He pulls his fingers away and glares down at Sherlock, doing his damnedst to remain stern. 

“Hold still. Open your mouth.” Sherlock complies, hands still resolutely behind his head.

And God, this is gorgeous. He’s so beautiful like this, John wants nothing more than to touch him, but no, _no,_ that would be too great a reward. Sherlock deliberately goaded him on tonight, flirted, fucking _offered himself up like a whore,_ and John _cannot_ tolerate that type of behaviour... (He takes a moment to silently remind himself that Sherlock dislikes being called dirty names, so any thoughts of _whore, slut,_ and _slag_ needed to remain _firmly_ internal on his part.)

He plants his feet and opens his trousers and jerks himself off dispassionately, aiming at Sherlock’s face but refusing to touch him anywhere. Sherlock’s eyes widen and he opens his mouth further, extending his tongue imploringly, leaning forward ever so slightly, desperate for _anything_ John will give him--

John comes all over his face. He’s generally a bit neater about it, aiming for Sherlock’s willing mouth, but tonight he’s not in a particularly generous mood. He paints his come across Sherlock’s fluttering eyelids, over his protruding cheekbones, and only manages to aim the last few pulses onto his plush lips. He finishes with a satisfied groan and tucks himself back into his pants, then proceeds to zip back up. 

Sherlock’s eyes flutter open and he peers up at John, nervous anticipation on his face.

John refuses to smile. Instead, he takes aim with the gun once more.

“Stand the fuck up. Strip. Leave your clothes on the floor--no, I don’t give a shit if it’s _bespoke,_ that’s none of my concern. Now turn around, hands on the windowpane. Spread your legs. What in God’s name are you hesitating for, I’m holding a fucking gun to your head, what, are you going to give me _sass,_ sweetheart? That’s more like it. Breathe. _Good,_ sweetheart. That’s _good.”_

John approaches Sherlock’s quivering form slowly. He holds the gun steady in his left hand until he’s directly behind him, then places the barrel delicately against Sherlock’s temple. Sherlock moans so hard John is actually worried he’s just come; he hazards a glance southward and notes that his concerns are unfounded, though Sherlock’s erection is throbbing and flushed a deep red that makes John’s groin ache in sympathy.

Reassured, John takes his right hand and places it lovingly on Sherlock’s right shoulderblade. Then he slowly trails it down over the hatched scars that mar Sherlock’s back, then lower still, to his perfect, pert arse. He pauses there, squeezing Sherlock’s right arsecheek in his hand, listening to the way Sherlock’s breath escalates as he attempts to deduce what John will do next.

Without further ceremony, John takes his right pointer finger and presses it into Sherlock’s crack, finds his mark, and pushes roughly inside, all the way up to his knuckle.

Sherlock lets out a garbled scream, and his fingers tighten helplessly on the windowframe. 

John holds the gun steady, and breathes.

He knows Sherlock likes painful sex. It’s not an easy thing for John; he’s a doctor, a _healer,_ and he prides himself no less on his abilities as a lover. Before Sherlock, he’d never wanted to bring his partners anything but pure, unadulterated pleasure.

But he’s slowly learning that, to Sherlock, this _is_ pleasure; it’s just a different, special kind of pleasure, a kind that’s unique to them in moments like this one. And while that realisation has taken John a long time to accept, he’s trying hard to be what Sherlock needs him to be. What _he himself_ wants to be.

That said, he’s still a doctor, after all, and he knows damn well there’s risk in all of this. Taking Sherlock completely unprepared (as Sherlock was _constantly_ begging him to) is a surefire recipe for disaster, so John’s constantly looking for new and creative ways to split the difference.

He moves his finger roughly in and out a few times. Sherlock’s passage feels hot and tight and the friction without lube is borderline uncomfortable, even for John. But Sherlock is spreading his legs further and tipping his head back and moaning, leaning into the sensation, letting the pain overtake him. John steadies himself, and continues.

He crooks his finger to find Sherlock’s prostate and begins to massage it in sharp, deliberate circles. Sherlock keens and swears, but he doesn’t move, and he doesn’t fight. He’s beginning to fully surrender, and John takes advantage, pressing the gun more firmly against his temple before issuing a series of forceful prods directly to the nub of nerves clustered inside him. Sherlock lets out a sound that seems rather like a sob, arching his back, presenting himself, imploring John to take him deeper.

John keeps him here until Sherlock’s prick is leaking and his legs are shaking so hard John’s fairly convinced he’s about to crumple into a heap at any given moment. Despite the rough treatment John’s issuing his hole, Sherlock’s cock is emitting string after string of precome, and it’s with a satisfied smirk that John finally withdraws his fingers and steps away. Sherlock slumps helplessly against the windowframe.

“No, none of that. Turn around and face me. Get on your knees. Go to the bedroom. Crawl. Don’t you dare come. I know how much you get off on crawling for me, but I swear to God, sweetheart, if you come before I give you permission, there will be _hell_ to pay, do you understand me?”

“Yes, Captain.” In an instant, Sherlock’s on his hands and knees, making his way across the sitting room floor. John follows him, mesmerised by the swing of his hips, the arch of his back, the way his sinewy muscles roll beneath the scarred flesh. It’s a goddamn _vision,_ and one John will not be getting over any time soon. How is it possible -- in this life or any other -- how is it possible that he gets to have _this?_ How was he given this man, this perfect, brilliant, incredible man, who had torn down every one of John’s defenses and blazed his way into every aspect of his consciousness, only to go to his knees before him and _crawl,_ making John feel indescribably powerful and hopelessly helpless all at once? It’s an intoxication so strong, John knows he’ll never survive it. He doesn’t want to.

They reach the bedroom. John still has his gun trained on Sherlock, which he notes prompts a satisfied smile from Sherlock as he hazards a glance over his shoulder to see what John has planned next. John makes his way to stand at the foot of the bed allows himself an internal smirk before he speaks.

“Alright. Get on the bed, face up. Just like that, sweetheart, beautiful, lovely. You can rest your head on the pillows, yes, there you go, perfect. Now,” he flicks the safety off the gun and points it squarely down at Sherlock’s head. “Touch yourself.”

Sherlock issues an indignant whimper, confusion flitting across his face. 

“Did I fucking stutter, sweetheart? Get your hand on your cock, _now._ Don’t lick it. No lube. Just make yourself come.”

Sherlock’s hand obediently flies to his swollen shaft, and he begins to jerk himself in awkward, aborted motions. He lets out a grunt, his free hand flying to twist into the bedsheets.

“Hurry up. I want to watch you come, sweetheart. Don’t keep me waiting. Come. NOW.”

And with that, Sherlock comes.

He parts his legs and digs his heels into the bed, throwing his head back and uttering an unearthly wail. His hand speeds up to the point it’s just a blur, and his cock pulses out a rather impressive amount of come all over his chest and abdomen. It’s absolutely gorgeous, the lot of it, beautifully messy as Sherlock debauches himself completely.

Eventually, the aftershocks subside, and Sherlock slumps bonelessly back onto the bed, a completely dazed expression on his face. His hand falls limply to the mattress, where he makes a half-hearted attempt to wipe some of the come off of it.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Captain?”

“Did I tell you to stop?”

“But I… I came.”

“Bully for you, but I’m not finished watching you yet. Do it again.”

“Captain, please, I’m…”

“You’re _what,_ exactly, sweetheart, hmm? You’re _sensitive?_ You’re _overstimulated?_ You think if bloody _Aaron_ had taken you home, he’d just let you get your rocks off and then loll about like a goddamn spoiled prince? I bet he’d have fucked you senseless, until you could scarcely _breathe_ from it, then sent you packing. I’m being _very_ generous here, sweetheart.”

“Please, J-Captain, please. Please fuck me. You fuck me better than he ever could.” Sherlock’s eyes are looking a bit teary again, and he spreads his legs imploringly.

John barks out a cold laugh. “Do I look like I’m running a charity over here? Unlike some people with lesser standards, I don’t just come in anyone who asks for it. You have to _earn_ it, sweetheart, and that starts right now. With you getting yourself off again. Do I make myself clear?”

With a watery nod, Sherlock places his hand reluctantly on his flaccid cock, and begins to stroke.

It’s clearly uncomfortable. Sherlock winces and shifts as he works himself over roughly, willing his spent member back to attention. Though he has the shortest refractory period John’s ever heard of, John’s well aware that having multiple orgasms in quick succession isn’t necessarily _pleasurable_ for him-- Sherlock had once described it as a pleasure to be _endured,_ not _enjoyed._ Even so, John knows how much Sherlock gets off on overstimulation, and that’s exactly what John wants tonight; for Sherlock to be so fucked out and spent he can’t remember his own name.

John forces himself to remain objectively dispassionate as the observes Sherlock over the barrel of his gun. Despite the fact that he can feel his own member regaining interest in the proceedings, he doesn’t touch himself or make any indication that he’s being impacted by the pornographic tableau playing out before him. He exudes indifference, bordering on _boredom,_ and it’s clearly driving Sherlock out of his mind.

He splays his legs obscenely as he jerks himself, arching his back and moaning in the deep, throaty baritone that he knows ordinarily drives John mad. He makes a bit of a show of it, eventually trailing his free hand up through the come streaking his abdomen to pinch and twist his nipples in turn, raising gooseflesh across his chest. He bites his lip wantonly, eyes closed as if lost in ecstasy, but John knows better than to fall for his ploy.

Sure enough, within minutes Sherlock breaks. His eyes fly open to meet John’s, and they’re full of desperation.

“Nnnng, John, _please. Captain, oh God, please fuck me, please… want it, I need it, please…”_

John sighs. “I don’t think so, sweetheart. You were very, _very_ bad tonight. I bet you’d beg this sweetly for Aaron if he’d won you, wouldn’t you?”

“No, Captain! No, just for you, just for you…”

“Really? I’m the only one you want?”

“GOD, yes, Captain! The only one I want… the only one… I’ve ever wanted…” Sherlock’s eyes turn glassy and he lets out a full-body shudder before arching nearly upright as he comes all over himself for the second time that night. He lets out a series of high-pitched grunts, working himself through his release before collapsing back onto the pillows, entirely spent.

John issues a non-committal sigh, but he doesn’t lower the gun. Sherlock blinks his eyes open, his gaze bleary and disorientated. He’s still shaking slightly, and he looks filthy-- his face is still covered in John’s come, and the two loads streaking his abdomen glisten obscenely in the dim light.

“Alright, love, that was gorgeous. You’ve almost convinced me. But I think you need to get yourself ready to take me now, hmm?”

Sherlock gives a wordless nod, and swallows hard.

“Go on, now. Give me a nice little show.” Sherlock reaches automatically for the nightstand drawer, where they keep the lube, but John’s too quick for him. “Ah-ah! Did I say you could use lube?”

Sherlock looks appropriately abashed. “No, Captain.”

“That’s right. So get down to it.”

“Captain, may I have… will you… lick?” Sherlock holds his hand up to John imploringly, and for a moment, John considers--Christ, he’d love to suck on Sherlock’s fingers for a bit, make him whimper and moan, but no, _no,_ he hadn’t earned it yet. Now was the time for _lessons._

“No can do, sweetheart. You got yourself into this mess. It’s up to you to convince me to let you out of it.”

Sherlock nods mournfully and then takes two fingers into his own mouth. He wets them, then pulls his thighs up to his chest, using his free hand to hold himself open behind the knee. Without hesitation, he presses his two moistened fingers inside himself.

“Gah!” Sherlock’s head drops back heavily to the pillow, and he grimaces theatrically. John’s prick gives a traitorous twitch-- God, he hates the fact that he gets off on Sherlock’s pain (no, not pain, _overstimulation,_ it’s _overstimulation,_ Sherlock’s constantly reminding John of this) during sex. He loves it when Sherlock whimpers and wails. He loves it more when he cries. It makes John sick. It makes John come. It’s a confusing, heavy tangle of emotions, but so tantalisingly addicting that he’s willing to endure the shame of the bad for the ecstasy of the good. 

“Nnnngh. Gah, augh!” Sherlock twists and scissors his fingers, prepping himself hastily and altogether more roughly than wholly necessary, but John doesn’t deter him. After a while he removes his fingers and raises his hand to his mouth to wet his ring finger, and then promptly resumes penetrating himself with all three.

John observes dispassionately.

Eventually Sherlock all but stills, twisting his three fingers inside himself slowly before pulling them out and bringing his hands to his cheeks and spreading them, exposing himself for John’s perusal.

John takes a slow, deliberate step towards the bed. Sherlock whimpers. John lowers the gun and peers down at him, then purses his lips.

“That’s alright, I suppose. But darling, I think you’re a bit wound up now, hmm? I want you nice and relaxed while I fuck you. How does that sound?”

Sherlock blinks up at him, clearly perplexed. “Good, Captain.”

John gives him a predatory smile. “Good. I think the best way to do that is to make you come again before I take you. What do you think?”

Sherlock inhales sharply through his teeth, slamming his eyes shut. “If… if that’s what you want, Captain.”

“That _is_ what I want, sweetheart. Get your vibrator out of the drawer.”

Sherlock fumbles awkwardly as he retrieves it, hand shaking and limbs weak from what he’s already endured. He flops back onto the bed, a look of grim resignation painting his perfect porcelain face.

“That’s it, love. It’ll be alright, just a little bit more, just a little bit further, and then I’ll make it all okay, hmm?”

Sherlock flicks his eyes up to meet John’s and nods, then takes a deep breath as he spreads his legs and positions the vibrator between them.

“No lube, now, just what you’ve put inside yourself. I know it’s going to be a bit sensitive, sweetheart, but that’s part of your punishment, alright? I need you to understand what happens when you deliberately provoke me, yeah? You have to pay for what you’ve done, and prove to me you’ve earned my forgiveness. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Alright. Turn it on and press it inside, good, just like that. Now hold it still, don’t fuck yourself with it yet. How does it feel?”

Sherlock looks a bit queasy, and he takes a steadying breath before he attempts to respond. “It’s… a lot, Captain. But I’m alright.”

John grins. “Good. Now, love, I want you to tell me what you did wrong tonight.”

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut and moans.

“Come on, darling, don’t waste my time.” John raises the gun once more and flicks the safety again-- more for the sound than anything, since he’d already turned it off before, but he knows Sherlock gets off on it.

Sherlock whimpers and flinches, then pries his eyes open to meet John’s. “I… I seduced another man.”

“That’s right. And what else?”

“I… I offered to let him fuck me--nnnngh, augh!” With that, his member begins to stiffen once more. (John still can’t get over his refractory period sometimes; it’s frankly absurd, and wasted on someone with such a selective sex drive, in his opinion-- not that he’s complaining.)

“That you did. As if that were your decision to make! Who decides who fucks you, sweetheart?”

“You do, Captain.”

“That’s right. Who owns your arse?”

“You do, Captain.”

“And who, exclusively, is in charge of your pleasure?”

“Augh, _you, Captain, only you, please! Please! Augh, please!”_

And that’s done it; as if on cue, the waterworks start. John watches with a calculatedly neutral expression as the tears spill over and begin to run down Sherlock’s come-streaked face.

“You’re goddamn right. Now fuck yourself until you come. You won’t get my cock until you do.”

“Nnnngh, yes Captain, oh, God, yes…” And with that, Sherlock begins to fuck himself with the vibrator in earnest.

It can’t possibly be pleasant. Though Sherlock had prepped himself with plenty of spit, John’s well-aware that it wouldn’t last long against the vibratior’s ministrations, and soon, Sherlock is moaning in agony as he moves the toy in and out of himself.

His cock, however, tells a different story. It rises resolutely to full-mast, presumably spurned on by Sherlock’s overstimulation kink combined with the fact that John’s moved to stand by the side of the bed to press the muzzle of the gun against Sherlock’s temple as he works himself over.

It’s not over quickly. John can tell Sherlock is growing frustrated, chasing his third release, struggling to bring himself over the edge. He’s sobbing and moaning and begging like a whore, and it’s taking every ounce of John’s restraint not to lose control and take him right then and there.

Finally, John has mercy. “Yes, sweetheart, that’s it. I can see you’re getting close. Just a little bit more now, just a little more, oh _yes, beautiful,_ fuck yourself, just like that, oh lovely, Christ, that’s perfect, brilliant, amazing, now come for me, gorgeous, come, _come--”_

And Sherlock does.

He’s silent as he endures it. His cock emits a few weak pulses of semen onto his abdomen, but the rest of his orgasm is completely dry. He simply shakes silently, tears streaming from the corners of his eyes, every muscle clenched in ecstasy, until he pulls the vibrator from his fluttering hole and melts back into the bed with a relieved, hiccuping sigh.

Fuck, that was gorgeous.

John doesn’t waste a second. He tosses the gun onto the nightstand and reaches into the drawer, grabbing the handcuffs and the bottle of lube. As quickly (and roughly) as he can, he rolls Sherlock onto his stomach and spreads his legs, then climbs onto the bed to kneel between them. He opens his trousers and pants and pulls out his cock, which throbs hotly in his hand as he hastily slicks it with lube. Sherlock simply lies face-down on the bed, boneless and pliant, awaiting what John has in store for him. He’s submitted completely.

Something raw and primal in John rears its head and gnashes its teeth in triumph.

“Come on, up you get, hands and knees. Hurry the fuck up.” Sherlock scrambles to comply despite his shaking limbs, and John grins as he watches him struggle. 

“Come here.” He grabs a fistful of Sherlock’s hair and yanks him bodily backwards towards his lap, his other hand going to Sherlock’s hip to guide him into place. Sherlock gets the message and hastily impales himself on John’s cock with a pained shout.

And Jesus Christ, it’s _perfect._ Sherlock feels hot and exquisitely tight, the vibrator having considerably less girth than John’s actual cock, and the minimal lube increasing the friction by tenfold. John throws his head back and moans with the incomparable bliss of it.

Sherlock shifts awkwardly, adjusting to the stretch and emitting pained whimpers that for reasons John would rather not think about make him impossibly harder. Finally, John tips his head forward and sinks a sharp bite into the base of Sherlock’s neck, over his top vertebrae. Sherlock whimpers louder.

Finally, John releases his teeth and re-directs his focus. Sherlock is lolling back in his lap, leaning heavily against him, arms loose and idle at his sides. John grabs his left wrist and snaps one handcuff around it, then wraps Sherlock’s arm back so that it reaches behind John. Then he grabs Sherlock’s right wrist and brings it behind himself as well before attaching the other cuff, securing Sherlock’s arms behind him, surrounding John, locking Sherlock against him completely. He is totally at John’s mercy.

John has used this position only once before, during a prolonged session that he’d given Sherlock for his birthday. He doesn’t use it all the time, as he knows it must be painful for Sherlock to have his arms locked behind himself and around John at such an extreme angle, but it’s absolutely perfect for situations like this, in which Sherlock is so weak and disorientated he can’t be trusted to hold himself upright and perform. This allows him to simply surrender to John’s desires, and John knows beyond a doubt that is all Sherlock needs in this moment.

Satisfied that Sherlock is secured in place, he reaches for the bedside table and grabs his gun once more, pressing it resolutely back against Sherlock’s temple. His other arm he reaches around Sherlock’s neck, trapping his throat in the crook of his elbow, and begins to lightly squeeze.

“Sweetheart?” He keeps his voice low and soft in Sherlock’s ear. “I’m going to need a yes or no on this. Are you a yes or no?” Although nothing he’s doing in this moment is outside what they’ve negotiated in the past, he’s fairly certain that he’s never before tried such a potent combination of stimuli while Sherlock’s been this far gone. He has to make sure Sherlock is on board; he can’t see his face, after all, to know if it’s too much.

Sherlock answers so quickly John almost laughs. “Yes, Captain. _Oh, God, YES.”_

And that’s all it takes. In the next moment, John is back in Captain Mode, all thoughts of tender mercy forgotten.

He tightens his arm’s grip resolutely around Sherlock’s throat, restricting his airflow just enough that he’s struggling, but not enough to cut it off completely. With his other hand, he presses the gun firmly against Sherlock’s temple. Then he begins to brutally piston up into his hot, tight heat.

He’s fairly certain Sherlock is trying to scream, or maybe sob, but it’s just coming out as aborted little twitches against the pressure of John’s arm around his throat. His body is lax, lolling back heavily against John as he thrusts up into Sherlock’s wilted form. He’s not fighting, he’s not chasing his own pleasure, he’s simply _surrendering_ himself to John. John feels like he’s flying.

“Oh, FUCK, sweetheart, yeah, yeah, that’s it, oh, Christ, so perfect for me, you’re so perfect for me, mine, all mine, MINE, fuck, you’re MINE, MINE, your virgin arse is MINE--oh FUCK…” Occasionally when John’s talking dirty his mouth runs a bit faster than his brain, but suddenly, the realisation that he is the _only man to have ever had Sherlock like this_ flares so hot and bright it’s blinding. If he were in a different mindset, he’d certainly have filed it away under ‘Things I Probably Ought To Analyse Before Acting Upon’ (though he’s fairly certain “Virginity Kink” would fall near the bottom of the list), but in the heat of the moment, he simply leans into it.

He forces the gun harder against Sherlock’s temple, and his head lolls dangerously to the side, entirely subservient. John has taken him over completely. “NNnngh, yes, gonna come in your tight arse, sweetheart, make you MINE, claim you like no other man ever has, yeah? Oh fuck, yes, gonna… gonna give you my come, make you mine, only mine, only mine, mine, mine, no other man, never, just me, only me, only me… gonna claim you now...let me claim you now... oh fuck--”

And with that, he’s exploding, turning inside out, sinking his teeth into the back of Sherlock’s neck and biting, sucking, screaming out his pleasure as he pumps everything he has into the man on top of him, tightening his grip around Sherlock’s neck to hear his wheezing gasps of surprise as he takes everything John can give him.

The world around John feels blurry and dull. He blinks through the haze in his eyes and raises his sweat-soaked forehead from where it had been resting against the back of Sherlock’s neck, struggling to regain control. He knows he’s still in charge here, that Sherlock is depending on him-- he can’t let himself go yet. He heaves in a deep breath and releases it, formulating a plan. Then he quickly, methodically springs into action.

He tosses the gun onto the nightstand and then wraps his free arm across Sherlock’s chest to keep him from tipping over as John retrieves the handcuff key from the drawer. Then he leans back so that Sherlock is resting heavily against him before reaching behind himself to release Sherlock’s wrists. He brings them forward and runs his fingers over them, checking for any sign of restricted bloodflow, but there’s none - just a few light marks that will undoubtedly bruise by morning, much to Sherlock’s delight. Then he slowly, delicately eases Sherlock forward, onto his knees, until he’s finally able to pull out.

Sherlock issues a pained cry and rolls forward onto his side. His eyes are wide and unseeing, and his chest is sweat-slicked and heaving. He’s coated in a layer of filth (a combination of come, sweat, and tears), and John steadies himself to speak.

“You with me, sweetheart?” He keeps his voice as tender and reassuring as he can.

Sherlock’s eyes don’t look up to meet his, but he answers softly under his breath. “Yes, John.”

“Are you hurt? Do you need me to look you over now?”

“No, John, it can… wait. Please, wait.”

“Okay, love, okay.” He reaches over and presses Sherlock’s matted curls back from his forehead. Sherlock shudders and closes his eyes and moans. “Sweetheart, I’m going to go start a bath--”

“No, please, John, no.” John pauses in shock. Sherlock has been so amenable to aftercare as of late, it seems impossible he’d refuse it after so rigorous a session--

“Please, I want to… stay like this for a bit. Leave me, yeah?” His eyes finally open and meet John’s.

_Oh._ So it’s like that, tonight.

John has known for a long time that Sherlock sometimes likes to be left dirty and debauched after sessions. He doesn’t understand it, but he’s come to accept it, and he mentally notes that it’s been awhile since he’s let Sherlock indulge in this activity following a session. 

He smiles down at him and nods. “Of course, sweetheart. Stay here and be good. I’ll come take care of you in a bit.”

Sherlock nods and closes his eyes, and drifts off to _wherever_ it is he goes when John turns his brain offline entirely, reducing him to a lump of corporeal need.

John would love to stay and hold him-- or even just _watch_ him, be _with_ him, but he knows that this part is for Sherlock alone. Reluctantly, he rises from the bed, tucks himself back into his pants and fastens his trousers, and leaves the room.

He barely makes it to the kitchen before his legs are shaking so hard he has to sit down. He manages to run himself a glass of water before they give out entirely, but as he plops down into one of the kitchen chairs, he’s forced to admit that perhaps it was for the best that Sherlock had asked to press pause on everything.

Because John is _wrecked._ The orgasm he’s just had is one of his most consuming in recent memory, and the headiness of the power exchange during the session has left him feeling almost drunk with it. He’s a bit dizzy from the high, and he forces himself to drain the full glass of water and sit still, reveling in silence for a full 30 minutes before he stands to start preparations for Sherlock’s aftercare.

He rises slowly, then meanders to the fridge to take stock of what they have. There isn’t much; John hadn’t been anticipating a session, so he doesn’t have many of the finger foods he prefers to give Sherlock when he’s feeding him. But he does scrounge up an orange (which he peels and tears into slices) and two biscuits (which he breaks into bite-sized pieces), and decides that will have to do.

He leaves the plate of prepared food on the kitchen table and then makes his way to the bathroom, where he sets out the menthol soak, massage oil, and sandalwood soap. He’s not sure what Sherlock will be in the mood for tonight, so he wants to be completely prepared. 

Finally satisfied, he checks his watch; it’s been 45 minutes, a good amount of time, and with a smile, he strips off his clothes (discarding them haphazardly in the hamper) and makes his way back into the bedroom.

Sherlock is splayed out on the bed, a look of abject bliss resting on his face. He looks utterly destroyed; he’s covered in come from his groin to his face, and his mad-scientist hair is sweat-soaked and matted. He barely seems to register John’s arrival.

“Hi there, sweetheart.”

“Hi, John.” His words are low and slurred-- he’s still well-under, then.

“I’m going to start taking care of you now, alright?”

“Yes, please, John.” Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed, and without prompting, he spreads his legs.

John smiles to himself. By this point, Sherlock knows how much John loves examining him after they have penetrative sex; while John always claims it’s to check for tearing, Sherlock knows damn well that John gets off on seeing his come leaking from Sherlock’s opening, and he indulges John so willingly every time…

John climbs onto the bed between Sherlock’s parted legs and wets one finger in his mouth before lowering it to Sherlock’s hole. The area looks inflamed, but not enough for concern, and John gently traces his rim a few times before pressing inside. Sherlock issues a quiet huff but stays still, and John pumps his finger in and out a few times, checking for any sign of blood (and yes, perhaps also delighting in the sensation of feeling his own come coating Sherlock’s passage). Eventually, he reluctantly withdraws, knowing Sherlock will undoubtedly be sore, and he doesn’t want to cause him any pain.

“Alright, everything’s in order, love. We need to get you in the shower now. Here, I’ll help you stand.”

He gets to his feet and helps a foal-legged Sherlock rise and wrap his arm over John’s stable shoulders before guiding him gently into the bathroom. He turns on the shower, scalding hot, and coaxes Sherlock into the steaming stream, where he stands swaying slightly as John soaps him up and washes him down. Then John helps him to sit on the floor of the shower, and goes about his routine of shampooing Sherlock’s hair.

He’s just about to start on the conditioner when he sees Sherlock’s shoulders are shaking. He reaches down and tips Sherlock’s chin up so that their eyes meet; Sherlock’s are brimming over with tears.

“Oh, love, are you alright?”

“Y-y-yes, John. It’s… g-good tears, good, I’m good…”

John smiles warmly down at him. “My, been a while since we’ve had a cry-worthy one, hmm? Go ahead, sweetheart, let it out, I’ve got you.” 

Time was, Sherlock going to pieces on the shower floor would have sent John into a blind panic, but he’s since learned better: sometimes after a particularly intense session, Sherlock would experience a rush of emotions-- mainly ones (John secretly hypothesises) he represses during his usual day-to-day life. Letting his barriers down during a session meant that the lot of it came bubbling to the surface, which occasionally left Sherlock feeling unmoored, overwhelmed, and unabashedly tearful-- none of which, John reminds himself, is a bad thing. He simply needs to be there for Sherlock while he… well, cries it out, as it were.

It’s been awhile since Sherlock’s been in this place, so John takes extra care with him, leaving the shower running and forgoing the menthol soak, instead opting for a back massage with the lavender massage oil he’s started keeping at hand. Eventually, Sherlock’s sobs subside and his muscles go lax and pliant beneath John’s hands. 

John hums contentedly. “Alright, love. Feeling better?”

Sherlock gives a wet snuffle but manages to nod and issue a quiet, “Yes, John.”

John flips off the taps and steps out of the tub, toweling himself off quickly and coaxing Sherlock out of the tub to do the same to him. Then he wraps them both in their respective dressing gowns and guides a drained-looking Sherlock back to the bedroom.

The sheets are soiled beyond repair, so John props Sherlock up in the chair in the corner while he changes them out, then takes Sherlock by the hand and leads him to the bed. He reclines willingly, wincing slightly as his body comes to rest on the mattress.

“You alright, love?”

“Mmm, yes, just a bit… sore. But alright.”

“Okay. Stay right here, sweetheart, I’ll be right back.” John scurries to the kitchen and retrieves the plate of nibbles, then quickly joins Sherlock in bed, pulling him close and pressing a series of kisses into his frizzy drying curls. 

“Hungry, sweetheart?”

“Yes, John.”

“Let me feed you up, love. Here, have this.” John holds up a piece of orange, and Sherlock opens his mouth willingly, taking the juicy fruit onto his tongue like a holy communion. He lets out a deep moan as he sucks it from John’s fingers, and John issues of a sigh of contentment, echoing his sentiment.

Feeding is still fairly new to their aftercare routine, and they do it only after their most intense sessions, but John adores it. It makes him feel so _tender_ and so _benevolent,_ as if he can actually take care of Sherlock for once. Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind it either; he goes all docile and dreamy-eyed as he stares up at John, lapping at his fingers and issuing sexy little hums of approval. They take their time with it, and by the time the plate is cleared, John feels utterly exhausted.

“Okay, sweetheart. Feeling good?”

“Yes, John.”

“Ready for sleep?”

“Yes, please, John.”

“Alright, my love.” John turns and sets the plate on the nightstand (startling slightly as he notices his gun is still sitting there; he hastily shoves it into the drawer and slams it shut) before flicking out the light.

He pulls Sherlock close to him, and Sherlock comes willingly. John notes he feels relaxed and peaceful in his arms, and he smiles to himself, knowing that once again-- they got it exactly right.

\-------------------------------

There’s a knock on the door at 9:02AM. John’s just finished dusting the sitting room and had been about to start on another load of laundry, taking advantage of the fact that Sherlock had gone out and Mrs. Hudson still had Rosie from the night before (John had dropped by to try and retrieve her, but Mrs. Hudson had been adamant that she and Rosie were baking cinnamon rolls and were not to be disturbed). He glares at the door suspiciously; they didn’t often get unexpected company this early on a Saturday morning, and he was just starting to hit his housekeeping stride.

Another knock. He utters a resigned sigh, deposits the basket of unfolded laundry on his chair, and reluctantly pries open the door.

Only to be greeted by a downright timid-looking Aaron. He’s wearing a grey hoodie and well-worn jeans (clearly off-duty), holding an unlabeled brown paper bag, and looking very, very anxious indeed.

John attempts to mask his confusion, but he’s fairly certain his expression’s already given him away. “Um… hi?”

“Hi. Sorry to… sorry to bother, I tried texting Sherlock but he didn’t answer… Your, uh, landlady let me in.”

“Oh. Um, yeah, very… amenable woman, Mrs. Hudson. What… what are you doing here?” He doesn’t mean to be rude, honestly he doesn’t, but Aaron’s uninvited presence has thrown him completely for a loop.

“I… I brought you this.” Aaron thrusts the brown paper back forward like a shield. “Bagels.”

John cocks his head. “...Bagels?”

“Yeah.” Aaron seems to steady himself. “They’re a, uh, traditional Australian peace offering.”

John narrows his eyes suspiciously, and Aaron sighs.

“Okay, I may have made that last bit up, but the shop by my flat’s got amazing reviews and I figured nothing says ‘I’m sorry’ like warm bread, so…”

“So you’re here to apologise?”

Aaron shrugs. “I’d like to. Or just… give you bagels. But I’m also… you know, sorry…” He’s casting his eyes downward and looking altogether far too awkward for a man of his standing and stature, and John feels a twinge of what he surprisingly assesses is _pity._ He realises for the first time just how _young_ Aaron is-- barely toeing his thirties, if that, but his mere height and size had previously given him a false aura of maturity.

“Oh. Um, cheers.” He opens the door further and accepts the bag, and Aaron meets his eyes with shy smile.

“I’ll just… uh, be going then.”

John wants to let him go. He’s got so much to do today (finish cleaning, two more loads of laundry, a trip to the Tesco, maybe have a go at removing the limescale that’s been building up on the showerhead…), but at the last second, he can’t bring himself to be so cavalier.

“Hey, do you… do you want to come in? I just made coffee. Too much for one, unless I want to be completely wired all morning.”

“Oh!” Aaron looks sincerely surprised, and then a little pleased. “Um, sure. If… yeah, I’d like that. Is Sherlock home?”

“Nah, he’s out at the lab.”

“On a Saturday morning?”

“What can I say, it’s his idea of a good time.”

John turns and ushers Aaron inside and gestures towards the couch before plopping the bagels on the coffee table, then makes his way to the kitchen. He plunges the French press he’d left steeping on the counter and grabs two mugs before returning to the sitting room, offering one to Aaron. He takes it with a smile as John fills it with coffee, before raising his eyebrows in feigned alarm.

“Oooh, RAMC? Better hope no one back home catches wind of me drinking from this.”

John gives him a wink. “I assure you, all surveillance footage taken in our flat is kept diligently under lock and key.”

Aaron barks out a laugh as John fills his own mug with coffee before moving the laundry basket from his chair and settling into it.

There’s a beat of silence, and Aaron takes a not-so-subtle look around the flat, taking in the countless toys and children’s books crammed onto the shelf in the corner before shaking his head and closing his eyes. “Oh my God. I’m such an idiot. You two have a kid?”

John grins and nods. “Yeah. Rosie. She’s two.”

“Jesus, John, I’m really sorry. You have to understand, if I’d known, I never would have… but, the other Yarders didn’t seem to think…”

John shrugs. “Honestly, a lot of them don’t know.”

Aaron furrows his brow. “But… you live together. How’s that possible?”

“Sherlock and I were flatmates completely by happenstance before we started working together. And it was even a while after that before we became… involved. So most people at the Yard just know us as professional partners. They may have their suspicions, but we don’t exactly go about broadcasting it, so it just sort of… is what it is.”

Aaron licks his lips and stares intently into his coffee cup. When he speaks, his voice is soft and laced with trepidation. “Do… do you think they’d judge you, if they knew?”

John takes a long sip of coffee and sinks back into his chair. It’s a loaded question, and he knows why Aaron is asking it. “Some of them would. There are a lot of really progressive people working there, but there are obviously some who are… very much on the conservative side, especially in the upper ranks. Sherlock and I already raise enough eyebrows by being unvetted consultants, so we seem to just… try to avoid ruffling feathers. _Not_ that I’m suggesting you do the same, it’s just… it’s what works for us.”

Aaron nods thoughtfully and bites his lip. He looks so lost, John is starting to feel more than a bit guilty for the grudge he’d been carrying.

“Listen, Aaron, I should… I want to apologise, too. Sherlock and I weren’t exactly forthcoming with you last night, and for the two of us, it was all in good fun, but I’m realising now it’s a bit rude to… um…”

“Play with your food?” Aaron’s tone is a bit sharper than John expected, but when their eyes meet, there’s no sign of malice there, just a lingering hurt that makes John ache in sympathy.

“Well, yeah. For lack of a better way of putting it.”

Aaron nods. “Apology accepted. And for my part, I’m… I’m really sorry about what I said. Not about wanting to ask Sherlock out, but the way I said it, it was crude, and crass, and frankly unacceptable. I know that. I think I’m just so used to being in a certain environment…”

“Hey.” John interrupts him gently. “I served, too. I remember what it’s like. It’s hard adapting back to civilian life, civilian norms. Especially when it comes to talking about that sort of thing-- dropping the macho act is a tough habit to break.”

Aaron chuckles and gives a mournful nod. “It’s so much harder than I thought it would be. Christ, I’ve been closeted for so long, the entire fucking time I served, and now I’m here, and I want a fresh start, but I have no idea what the hell I’m doing…”

“Well, you could start by not trying to pick up your co-workers for one-night stands.”

Aaron looks properly abashed, but John decides not to make him squirm. He transforms his face into a warm smile and leans forward, willing him to meet his eyes, which Aaron reluctantly does. “Look, I bet if you ask really nicely, Sherlock would take you out to a gay bar.”

Aaron’s eyebrows raise nearly to his hairline. “Are you serious? He doesn’t seem like the type.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, he hates bars, but he _loves_ dancing. And he’s the best damn wingman you’ve ever met.”

Aaron gives him a skeptical look. “No way. No offense, but from my limited experience, he doesn’t exactly seem great at conversation.”

“Oh, hell, no, don’t let him _talk_ to anyone! But he’ll deduce every bloke in the bar and make sure you’re casting your net in the right waters, as it were.”

Aaron gives him an amused smile. “Noted. You gonna join us on this little adventure?”

John shakes his head. “Nah. Not really my scene. But you two have my blessing.”

For a moment he thinks Aaron is going to inquire further, and John holds his breath; Aaron seems nice enough, but John’s not in the mood to split hairs about his own sexuality with a near-stranger. Luckily, Aaron seems to decide to take his response at face value, simply giving him a nod and smile before draining the last of his coffee and placing his cup on the table and making to stand. John follows suit.

Aaron is still staring at his feet when he speaks again. “Listen, mate, I… appreciate it. I… It’s nice to meet someone who’s… like… like me. And who has… this.” He gestures vaguely around the flat before finally meeting John’s eyes. “Gives me hope, I guess.” 

John grins. “Me, too.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dearest readers, I am so unbelievably sorry for the delay with this chapter! I don’t usually start posting a new installment before I have everything ready to go, but for some reason, I ended up completely rewriting Chapter 3 TWICE, resulting in a rather unacceptable lag between postings. Please know I don’t plan to make a habit of it! Future installments will be back to the chapter-a-week model. Please accept this extra-long, extra-pornalicious update as a token of my deepest remorse!
> 
> As always, heed the tags, please! This one gets rough, so buckle up.

John jerks awake and blinks rapidly, his brain struggling to quantify his surroundings. After a few panic-inducing, disorientating seconds, he remembers.

Situation room. NSY. Sherlock’s latest case: Bank robbery. Stolen bonds. Sherlock had managed to deduce the stash was being hoarded in a safe located in a well-renowned Soho club owned by a notorious crime family, but the evidence was circumstantial, at best - nowhere near solid enough to legally procure a warrant. As always, Greg was reminding Sherlock that he needed enough evidence to follow due process, and Sherlock was being predictably belligerent and arguing every step of the way.

And the fact that all of this was unfolding at 4 o’clock in the fucking morning meant that John had drifted off in his chair, leaning against the cinderblock wall, lulled to sleep by the dulcet tones of Sherlock and Greg’s persistent bickering.

He rubs his eyes and attempts to shake himself out of his stupor. He’s not sure how long he was out for; it couldn’t have been that significant, otherwise Sherlock would generally start casually lobbing random office supplies in his direction to wake him up, but it seems he’d come to on his own for once. Not only that, but Sherlock and Greg seem to have struck some sort of tentative peace; they’re huddled together over a table containing blueprints for the club and speaking in hushed tones.

John stretches, cracks his neck, and makes to stand, his brain struggling to process Sherlock and Greg’s murmured conversation.

“...with the combination. I just need four minutes unattended with the safe, and if he’s as paranoid as you say he is, this is the best way.”

“I dunno, Sherlock, it’s not exactly above board. We may have gotten away with it a few years ago, but we’ve both got higher profiles now, and the top brass wouldn’t--”

“None of it’s illegal, Lestrade. I won’t touch the the bonds. You’ll move in before money changes hands. I won’t mention the case, so there’s no chance of entrapment. It’s clean.”

Greg chuckles and shakes his head. “Clean? You think John will call it that?”

“Leave John to me.”

“Leave what to you?” John pipes up.

Both Sherlock and Greg visibly start, and John’s perplexed to note they both look distinctly _guilty._ Sherlock wipes the expression off his face almost instantaneously, but John knows what he saw.

“We’ve come up with a plan.” Sherlock rises and begins to gather the blueprints strewn across the table, stuffing them into their manila folder. Greg remains seated and averts his eyes.

“Care to enlighten me?” John’s intrigued. Whatever they’ve come up with, it’s clearly unorthodox, and as much as he pretends to hate Sherlock’s hair-brained schemes, they _do_ tend to be rather entertaining…

“I’ll tell you in the cab. We should get home. You need to catch up on sleep and I have preparations to make.”

John blinks his eyes uncomprehendingly; he can’t remember the last time Sherlock took his need for sleep into account. It’s all very suspicious indeed.

“Uh, alright. Got everything?”

Sherlock hums a faint sound of affirmation as he tucks the manila folder under his arm and grabs his coat off the back of the chair. “Yes. See you tomorrow, Lestrade. We’ll debrief again this afternoon, once you’ve got your team selected. Don’t bring Navarre or Dickens. They’re not right for this.”

“You got it.” Greg rises slowly to his feet and gives them both a haggered little wave as Sherlock ushers John out of the room and down the hall to the lifts.

It’s misting outside, the streetlamps glowing in the hazy grey light of pre-dawn. They find a cab with relative ease and settle into the back of it. Sherlock resolutely refuses to meet John’s gaze and instead stares intently down at his phone, but John’s no fool; he can tell his eyes aren’t moving.

“Alright, out with it. What’s going on?”

Sherlock’s eyes flit up to meet John’s for a split second before reverting back to the screen. “Nothing. It’s a standard sting operation. Fairly straightforward. Nothing to be concerned about.”

“Then why the hell are you acting weird?”

“I’m not acting weird.” Sherlock’s tone is curt, defensive.

“Oh, toss off, you are so. Usually when you formulate a plan for a sting operation you’re practically vibrating out of your skin with the desire to dazzle me with your brilliance, and I somehow doubt you’ve been stricken with an unexpected case of modesty. So that means it’s either exceptionally embarrassing and involves my dressing as a pirate, a lady, or some other humiliating character, or it’s exceptionally dangerous, in which case I’d like to know sooner rather than later.”

Sherlock sighs and pockets his mobile, looking enormously put-upon, but John doesn’t relent. Finally, Sherlock speaks.

“The stolen bonds are being kept in a safe in the basement of _Token,_ the club owned by the Hassan family.”

John nods-- that much he’d been awake for.

“Lestrade insists the evidence I’ve collected is circumstantial at best - he won’t be able to procure a warrant based on that. Therefore, we need probable cause-- which we have, loosely speaking, but just searching the basement won’t do us much good if the bonds are locked away. The police have investigated the club before, and the owner is fastidious about keeping their offices squeaky clean; we won’t find any evidence of criminal activity immediately accessible there. Our best hope is to find a way to access the safe but to be able to insist it was open purely by happenstance; that way, no warrant is required, and our probable cause justification will hold up in court, since stolen goods will be apprehended.”

John cocks his head. “So we need to… open the safe, but just leave it ajar?”

Sherlock nods. “Precisely. Once the safe has been opened, Lestrade’s team can move in, and _purely by coincidence_ they’ll check the door of the safe, only to discover it’s open.”

John purses his lips. “But Sherlock, surely there will be security footage of their offices. There will be evidence of you opening the safe prior to the search.”

Sherlock shrugs. “Not if the security system experiences a minor glitch. They use one of those digital ones that are absurdly easy to hack; you can leave the cameras on, but stop the recording. Most security personnel aren’t trained to notice the difference. Besides, just opening a safe isn’t a crime within itself. I won’t steal anything. I won’t touch the contents. There’d be no charges to file against me. Just a lucky coincidence.”

“Oh.” John’s admittedly a bit relieved; the plan seemed relatively straightforward so far, and he’s got no idea why Sherlock had been so secretive about it. “So… what, we’ll come up with an excuse to clear out the back office, then you’ll sneak in to open the safe while it’s unattended?”

Sherlock drums his fingers dismissively against the armrest. “Mmm, look, we’re home. You’ve got the fare?”

“Uh, yeah…” John rummages for his wallet as Sherlock exits the cab and swans through the front door of 221B, absentmindedly shutting it behind him. John grits his teeth, collects his change from the cabbie, re-unlocks the front door, and follows him up the stairs.

He enters the flat to find Sherlock already in the kitchen, dumping out the contents of the manila envelope onto the table and spreading it out for his perusal, a look of grim determination on his face.

John makes his way to the fridge. “I’m going to pop some toast in, then maybe try to grab a few hours’ sleep. You want anything?”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, but John didn’t expect him to; he still loses himself entirely when he’s on cases, and John’s come to accept that he should just let it be. Instead, John busies himself buttering a piece of toast and pouring a glass of water (no coffee or he’ll never get a nap in) before peering over Sherlock’s shoulder at the blueprints.

“So what’s the plan? Fire alarm?” That was their tried-and-true method of gaining unfettered access to places, and John remembers the first time he’d helped Sherlock employ that technique with Irene Adler.

Sherlock shakes his head. “Not this time. Syed Hassan, the club’s owner, is far too clever for something so pedestrian. The Yard actually tried a similar technique three years ago, when they wanted to search the club’s offices for evidence of embezzlement on a different case, but Hassan didn’t budge. Actually locked himself in the main office with the safe until the fire department arrived, and even then, he insisted on supervising as they did a safety sweep. Messy ordeal, that.”

“Mmm.” John pops the last remnants of crust into his mouth and polishes off his water. “So what’ll we do instead?”

“John?” Sherlock saying his name takes John entirely by surprise. Usually when he’s this wrapped up in a case he’s nearly non-verbal, barely acknowledging John’s existence. But now he’s looking at him, _straight_ at him, his face smooth and expression unreadable. “Sit down.”

It doesn’t occur to John to hesitate. He pulls out a chair and seats himself at the table, and prepares for what he’s sure is going to be an absolutely outrageous heist scheme.

But instead, Sherlock just blinks impassively down at him, before taking a deep breath. _“Token_ is a club founded by Syed Hassan thirteen years ago. It started out as an upscale gay club, but quickly took on a more niche market, catering to those on the BDSM scene. And no, before you ask, it’s not a _sex club_ or anything else so uncouth, it merely has particular _undertones_ that appeal to a very select set of clientele.”

John swallows hard. “Um… alright?”

“Syed himself a model entrepreneur: a consummate workaholic, fastidious in his record-keeping, hands-on in his managerial style. This makes him an excellent businessman, and an even better criminal. His family has been linked to a myriad of underground activity over the years and there’s good cause to believe that _Token_ simultaneously functions as a money-laundering operation, but not once has the Yard been able to catch Syed in the act.”

John nods again, still perplexed as to where all this is going.

“On a personal note, however, things get considerably messier. Syed is married-- he has a wife and two young children. Despite that, he seems unable to keep himself from _sampling the wares_ that come through the doors of his club. He prefers men-- _submissive men_ \-- mainly prostitutes, vetted and provided by pimps he trusts, negating the need for non-disclosure agreements. He entertains them in the back offices of the club. Where he keeps the safe.” 

John’s certain his blood has turned to ice. He’s willing his mouth to form a sentence, something _civilised,_ something _reasonable,_ something _level-headed_ and _fair,_ but instead--

“Oh, hell no.”

“John, just listen to me, please. We’ve been through all the other possibilities; this is the best possible way. I need to get into that room to get the safe open; you’ve seen how I do it, no one else can figure it out on the fly.”

The ice in John’s veins appears to be melting at an alarmingly rapid rate, only to be replaced by what he’s fairly certain is molten lava.

“So you’re going to… what, exactly, whore yourself out to Hassan and somehow open the safe while he’s too distracted buggering you to notice?”

The muscles in Sherlock’s face twitch, and John feels a twinge of remorse-- he knows Sherlock hates the words _whore, slut,_ and _slag_ (John’s fairly certain the origin of his distaste has to do with the way the men he’d been with in the past had treated him, but he’s never had the stomach to ask outright) -- but it wasn’t as if he was calling Sherlock a whore, per se… he was just calling a spade a spade here, after all.

“No. Hassan keeps his toys in a private back room adjacent to the main office. It’ll give me just enough time to open the safe in his absence.”

John narrows his eyes. “And you know this _how?”_

Sherlock’s gaze is steady. “A member of my Homeless Network was one of his frequent companions, before he got clean and left his pimp.”

John feels mildly abashed, but he’s still nearly shaking with indignation; he can’t believe Sherlock is even _considering_ this. “Sherlock, this is madness. How do you expect me to be involved--”

Sherlock just closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, as if willing himself to have patience, like John’s some sort of petulant child. It takes all of John’s willpower not to stand up and shove him.

“You’re not going to be involved at all.”

“I’m sorry?”

Sherlock’s eyes snap open, and his gaze is level and undeterred. “You’re not going to be involved at all, John. This one is too close for you. I’m doing it on my own.”

John’s on his feet so quickly he doesn’t register his chair toppling over until he hears it hit the floor behind him with a crash. “The _hell_ you are.”

Sherlock draws himself up to his full height, clearly bracing for a row. “You’re damn right I am. Last I checked, I have complete autonomy when it comes to the Work.”

John actually chuckles, a low, dark sound. “Oh, no you don’t. If you think I’m going to stand by and let another man have you--”

“I won’t let him fuck me, John.”

John throws back his head and laughs, hysteria bubbling to the surface out of nowhere. “Oh, no? Why, that’s mighty big of you. Huge sacrifice on your part, I _so_ appreciate you compromising the Work on my behalf by not shagging a criminal responsible for one of the largest bank heists in recent history. The sacrifices you make for me!”

“I know how to keep the situation under control.”

Something in the way Sherlock says this ignites a memory in John’s brain, from the conversation he’d overheard Greg and Sherlock sharing back in the situation room.

“Wait a second. Back at the Yard, Greg said you’d done this sort of thing on a case before.”

Sherlock stills momentarily, and the air between them feels heavy and blank. When he speaks, his voice is measured, but John dects a hint of a tremor beneath the bravado.

“That was a long time ago, John.”

“Just how long, exactly?”

“Before you.”

“How long before me?”

Sherlock finally loses his temper entirely, dropping the calm facade as his face contorts into a mask of rage. “For fuck’s sake, John, what does it matter? When I first started working with Lestrade, ages ago, I was a different man. I was on and off the wagon. I had no friends, no life, and considerably fewer scruples about what I would and would not subject my transport to in the name of the Work. Did I do some things that were morally questionable? Yes, probably. But what the fuck’s it to YOU? You come in here all high and mighty, as though you treat sex as some precious, sacrosanct rite between two committed individuals, but I know for a fact you spent _years_ of your life shagging anything with two tits and half a brain, and that wasn’t even for a REASON! That was just for FUN! So which of us has the moral high ground, hmmm? You, who used your transport for pleasure and hedonistic pursuits, or me, who used it to gain the upper hand in the only game I knew how to play? Because you and me, John, we were both playing games. Don’t fucking act like you were so much better.”

John comes to outside of St. Pancras church. He’d been walking for a long time, he could tell by the numbing cold that had seeped into his fingers and toes, and his ears ache with it. He’s not wearing a coat or hat. He swears quietly and sits down on the steps.

It had been a while since that had happened - a total whiteout. That’s how he described it to his therapist: the times he’d get so angry that the world turned into white noise, and later he wouldn’t be able to recall how he’d gotten from one place to another. Sometimes he’d vaguely remember saying something about “needing some air” before turning and marching out the door, but most of the time, he’d just sort of… snap back into consciousness, without any hints to the origin of his current circumstance.

His old therapist hadn’t seemed bothered by it. “It’s quite healthy, actually,” she’d told him. “You’re removing yourself from a volatile situation until you’ve calmed down enough to remain in control. It’s a perfectly reasonable coping mechanism.”

He’d taken her advice at face value, at the time, but he’d never quite fully embraced the sensation of feeling so completely overwhelmed with anger that he literally _forgot how to function._

However, his new therapist, Dr. Richards, wasn’t quite as embracing. When he’d told her about the episodes, her brow had knit with worry.

“It’s not a big deal,” he’s assured her. “I mean, it’s a perfectly reasonable coping mechanism, right?”

She’d paused before responding. “To a degree, yes. If you’re in an altercation so consuming that you’re afraid it will turn violent or you’ll say something you’ll regret, yes, you should absolutely remove yourself from the situation.”

“...But?”

“But that shouldn’t be your default response. While walking away is a valid reaction, it’s not always the healthiest route to take. We need to work on diffusing your anger _before_ it gets to that point, to enable you to stay physically and emotionally engaged in your current situation in order to reach a better conclusion to the problem at hand.”

“Well, it’s not like I avoid it forever. I mean, I always come home, and Sherlock and I work it out somehow…”

Dr. Richards nodded encouragingly. “True, and that’s a good sign. But you also need to remember that there’s a child involved now. Rosie is getting to the age at which she’ll start to perceive these things. If she observes her parents arguing and then associates it with you leaving, it could become a stress trigger for her, drawing a bad correlation/causation response that it’s best we avoid.”

John nodded thoughtfully. “So… what do we do instead?”

Dr. Richards had given him some mindfulness techniques to practice, and coupled them with the breathing techniques he’d already learned. And, to John’s surprise, it had helped exponentially; while things between him and Sherlock still became heated, most of the time he was able to diffuse his anger before it got to the point that he had to walk away. He hadn’t had the impulse to get violent in a long, long time.

But somehow, here he was, the rosy glow of dawn streaking the horizon, shaking, disorientated, and still _mad as hell._

He reaches into his pocket and it’s with some relief he discovers he’s still got his mobile on him. He does a quick search and finds an open coffee shop, and hastily navigates his way to the enveloping warmth.

He’s not hungry, but he checks the time and notes it’s a bit past 6 in the morning; a reasonable time for coffee, he concludes. He orders a cup and hunkers down at a table in the corner. He breathes. He thinks.

He arrives back at Baker Street at a little after 9. He enters the flat to find Sherlock still posted up at the kitchen table, though now he has two laptops open in front of him, one featuring an article about Syed Hassan from an entertainment site, and the other boasting some very complex-looking safe schematics.

He approaches him slowly from behind, and Sherlock doesn’t acknowledge his presence. Gently, John reaches up to rest his hands reassuringly on Sherlock’s shoulders. 

“So when are you going in?”

There’s a tension that dissipates from Sherlock’s shoulders the moment John speaks those words, like a weight he didn’t know he’d been holding has suddenly fall away. His muscles relax beneath John’s hands, and he rolls his neck slowly, until his head’s tipped back enough to meet John’s eyes.

“Tomorrow night. We have preparations to make. I need my plan to be airtight, and Lestrade is still working on assembling his team. We can’t rush it.” With that, he lifts his head once more and reverts his gaze back to the monitors in front of him.

“Alright, then. Anything I can do to help?”

“Tea, please.”

John allows himself an indulgent smile before putting the kettle on.

The rest of the day is… strange. Usually when they’re preparing for a sting operation, John is in it as deep as Sherlock. If he’s not part of the undercover op, he’s almost always on Lestrade’s team as backup, and he and Sherlock work lock-step as they hatch their plan. 

But this time, it’s different: Sherlock loses himself completely in the Work, and John busies himself with mundane domestic activities to try and keep his hands and mind occupied. Rosie was with Sherlock’s parents, so John takes advantage of the unexpected free time to clean the grout in the bathroom, dust the air ducts, sort Rosie’s clothes (she’s growing so fast it makes his head spin), and complete three separate errands he’d been putting off for weeks. He picks up kebabs on his way home (including two for Sherlock, though he’s certain he’s not eating), and returns to the flat feeling as calm as possible, considering the circumstances.

Sherlock isn’t there when he gets back. John checks his mobile, but he’s unsurprised to see there are no texts - when the game is on, Sherlock still becomes completely absorbed in the case, and despite John’s best efforts, his communication skills tend to go by the wayside entirely. So John simply grabs a beer, turns on the telly, and eats his kebabs in peace.

By the time 10:30 rolls around, he’s falling asleep on the sofa. He realises he’d never gotten a nap in, and considering he and Sherlock had been out at the Yard until dawn, it’s unsurprising that he feels completely beat. Resigned to not seeing Sherlock for the remainder of the night, he prepares for bed, and quickly drifts off into a dreamless sleep.

He has no idea what time it is when he feels strong arms wrap around him, pulling him back into consciousness. It’s pitch dark outside, the dim glow from the streetlamp outside silhouetting the familiar surroundings of the bedroom. The arms tighten, and John hears Sherlock sigh deeply into the back of his neck. John relaxes into his touch.

But moments later, John’s blinking his eyes open again. This is… well, _odd,_ to say the least. Sherlock’s not much for sleep when he’s on a case, and he’s particularly not fond of sleeping in their _bed_ during a case; if anything, he’d allow himself a brief hour or two on the sofa before springing back up like a jack-in-the-box wound too tight. And Sherlock was most _certainly_ not fond of any type of physical contact during a case, particularly that of a sexual nature. Yet as John registers the hardness of Sherlock’s erection pressing resolutely against his backside, he notes this certainly _seems_ like contact of a sexual nature. He’s completely taken aback.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?”

“You alright?”

Plush lips press against the back of John’s neck, followed by the decadent sensation of a lapping tongue. “Mmm. Want you. Please.” A light bite to the base of his shoulder.

John rolls over and attempts to read Sherlock’s expression, but it’s impossible in the dark. Taking his actions for compliance, Sherlock presses their lips together eagerly before rolling John onto his back and straddling him, the heat of his erection perceivable through the thin fabric of John’s pajama bottoms; despite himself, John can feel his member gaining interest in the proceedings. Sherlock chuckles darkly and begins to move, dragging his prominent hardness against John’s burgeoning one, and John can’t quite bite back his moan.

“Nnnngh, Sherlock, what… what’s all this?”

Sherlock continues to move on top of him, oscillating his hips in a slow, sensual drag. John brings his hands up to clench at his hips, and notes he’s stark naked. The room feels unnaturally hot.

“Want you.” Sherlock’s tone is curt and pragmatic.

John swallows. “Nngh, alright, that’s… but the case?”

“Tomorrow.”

“And you’re up for--”

“For God’s sake, John, do you want me or not?” Sherlock pulls back so he’s sitting fully upright atop John, and while John can’t see his face, the rigid lines of his shoulders leave little room for interpretation.

“Christ, of course I do, you just don’t usually want sex during a case, and I’m--”

“Thinking too much. Shut up and let’s fuck.”

And then Sherlock’s bending to meet their mouths once more, more tongue and teeth than lips this time, feral and hungry.

John’s no fool. He knows damn well that this isn’t normal-- Sherlock’s not usually nearly so plebeian in his dirty talk, nor is he generally so aggressive, preferring for John to do the pursuing and set the tone for the encounter. But John also knows they’re both still raw from this morning; despite the fact he’d diffused the situation in time, he knows there’s still the heavy weight of words unsaid hanging over them, and he knows damn well this isn’t the best way to handle it.

But Christ, he can’t bring himself to make it stop. Sherlock’s skin is so warm and smooth beneath his palms, and his muscles ripple so gorgeously as he moves himself on top of John, and that beautiful baritone rumble in the back of his throat sets John’s lizard-brain alight.

He should stop this.

But dammit, he _can’t._

Before he can process what’s happening, Sherlock is crouching up to pull John’s pajamas and pants down around his thighs, then settles himself back in position, wrapping one slender hand around both of their lengths and starting to jerk them in rhythm. John whines and arches, but Sherlock simply leans down and captures him in a searing kiss, and within moments, John is _lost,_ helpless to do anything but gasp hotly into Sherlock’s mouth as the sensation of their cocks moving together overwhelms his brain entirely.

He doesn’t register much else from there. He feels Sherlock panting wetly against him as he gyrates his hips and speeds up his hand, and John reaches down to the place where they’re joined to cup and fondle the tips of their cocks while Sherlock stimulates their shafts. The dual sensations are overwhelming, and John can’t help but cry out with the pure ecstasy of it. Sherlock takes advantage and shoves his tongue into John’s mouth with wholly more force than necessary, and John finds himself surrendering completely to Sherlock’s bold advances.

In what feels like forever and an instant all at once, Sherlock pulls away and utters a series of increasingly high-pitched grunts. His hand speeds up and tightens, increasing the friction between their lengths (dry and hot but still somehow so _right)_ and then he throws back his head and shouts, and John can feel the wet heat of Sherlock’s release splashing onto his abdomen.

As soon as he’s finished, Sherlock relinquishes his grip on both of their cocks and flops over onto his back.

John shoots him a dirty look, though he knows its completely futile in the dark; honesty, Sherlock could be so goddamn _selfish_ sometimes--

“Come on me.” Sherlock’s voice is stern and steady, and John watches as he spreads his legs and pulls his thighs back to his chest, wrapping his hands behind his knees to hold himself open.

John swallows as the request _(command)_ slices brightly through his brain. “Where?” He pulls himself into a sitting position and then shifts onto his knees, shuffling to insert himself between Sherlock’s legs.

“My cock. My arse. Mark me up. Make me yours, wherever you want me.”

“Oh, fuck, _yes--”_ In an instant, John’s jerking himself in rapid strokes over Sherlock’s prone form.

It doesn’t take long. Even in the dim light, the image of Sherlock splayed out and spread before him like a feast is mind-meltingly erotic, and as he stares up at John with his blazing jade-green eyes, panting through his cupid-bow lips, John is pulled under entirely.

John comes noisily, depositing the first few pulses of his release across Sherlock’s spent cock before directing the rest of it at his hole, clenched tight and furled in the cool air of the bedroom. It’s obscenely pornographic, and John continues to jerk his prick long after the waves of pleasure have subsided, intent on milking every last ounce of come onto the debauched form before him. Eventually, he guides the head of his cock to Sherlock’s hole and presses the tip gently inside; not enough to truly stretch Sherlock or cause him any pain, but just enough to work some of his release into him. Sherlock shudders and moans, and John reluctantly pulls back out, his softening member preventing him from pushing it any further.

“Fuck.” He sags back onto his heels and rests his head against Sherlock’s knee, closing his eyes and willing his breathing to return to normal.

“Mmm.” Sherlock’s voice sounds low and content.

Eventually, John manages to blink his eyes back open and sit up. Sherlock props himself up on his elbows and drags the fingers of his right hand absently through the streaks of John’s come coating his spent cock.

“Christ, Sherlock, that is disgusting.”

Sherlock cocks his head, then brings his fingers to his lips and licks them clean before swinging his legs off the bend to stand. “Eye of the beholder, I suppose.”

John groans and buries his face in his hands. “You are utterly depraved, you know that?”

“Why, thank you. I take that as a compliment of the highest order.” Sherlock turns and gives John a wink before disappearing into the bathroom.

He emerges moments later and lobs a John a wet flannel at John before retrieving his dressing gown from its hook and wrapping it around himself, then grabs his mobile from the nightstand and heads towards the bedroom door.

“You’re not staying?” John wipes the mess off his abdomen and tosses the soiled flannel in the general direction of the hamper.

“No. More work to do.” Sherlock’s face is suddenly illuminated by the glow of his mobile screen as he begins to type furiously into it.

“Oh. Um, alright then. I’ll… be here if you need me.”

“Why would I need you?” Sherlock’s voice is already distant and aloof again; it’s as though he’s a completely different person than he’d been a mere three minutes ago. It’s frankly unnerving.

John does his best to shrug it off. “No reason.”

It takes John a long time to fall back asleep.

He wakes to find the bedroom filled with sunlight. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised he’d had a bit of a lie-in; after Sherlock left, he’d lain awake for what felt like ages, attempting to unseat the sense of unease wrapping its tentacles around his chest. When he’d last looked at the clock, it had read 3:22. He rubs his eyes, and stretches.

“I have an idea.”

John nearly jumps out of his skin. “Jesus CHRIST, Sherlock!” He’s seated in the chair by the wardrobe in the corner. John’s never actually seen Sherlock sit in that chair before; generally he just used it as a depository for dirty clothes and random bits of disguises until John lost his patience and made him clear it off. But this morning he’s settled comfortably into it, and he’s starting at John with rapt attention. 

John takes a deep breath and wills his heart rate to return to normal as he pulls himself into a sitting position. “You scared the crap out of me. What are you doing in here?”

“I said, I have an idea.”

“Yes, I caught that. What’s so urgent that it couldn’t wait until the kettle’s on?”

“It’s about our situation.”

John blinks back at him. “We have a situation?”

“Yes. Perhaps you’ve forgotten, please allow my illustrious memory to refresh yours: As of yesterday morning, you were calling me a whore, I took you off the case, you stormed out-- which you haven’t done in months, by the way-- then you came home and spent the day cleaning the flat and pretending that you were fine with everything, which clearly you’re not, so let’s just put an end to this jolly little facade and discuss this like proper adults.”

John rubs his eyes again. “You’re asking me to discuss something like a proper adult? Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock?

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I’m extremely busy today, John, I haven’t much time to waste. Do you want to hear me out, or no?”

“Of course I do, Sherlock. And for the record, I never actually called you a… um, a… uh, whore.”

“No, I believe your exact turn of phrase was, ‘whore yourself out,’ which I realise is brass tacks in this scenario, but I believe your _sentiment_ came across loud and clear.” His gaze is cold, and John cringes internally.

“I… I’m truly sorry about that, Sherlock. I know you hate it when… I should have chosen my words more wisely.”

“You were angry.”

“That’s not an excuse. I shouldn’t call you that, ever, and for that, I apologise.”

Sherlock cocks his head appraisingly. “Apology accepted. But please, refrain from using that word in my presence again.”

John nods earnestly. “Understood. Now… what’s this idea of yours?”

Sherlock steeples his fingers beneath his chin, and takes a deep breath. “We’ve been experimenting recently with incorporating your possessive streak into our sessions when we _unwind._ I thought the results had been quite positive thus far, but after our last attempt, you put a halt to things because of the _feelings of others_ that were involved.” He says _feelings of others_ with such derision that John can practically feel it dripping from his words.

“... Well, yes. I know it’s a little hard to grasp, Sherlock, but as I explained, it’s an empathy thing. You leading people on if you’ve no intention of following through, simply for my voyeuristic appeasement… it’s making them a part of a game that they didn’t consent to playing. For us, it’s all good fun, but for people like Aaron, who get caught in the crossfire, it can be hurtful.”

“And I said I understood, even though I don’t, really, but I accept that _empathy_ is rather outside my wheelhouse, so I willingly deferred to your judgement on the matter.”

“Um… alright?”

“But I think tonight might be an excellent opportunity to rekindle our little experiment.”

John furrows his brow in confusion. “During the _case?”_

Sherlock moves his hands to grasp the arms of his chair and pulls his shoulders back, eyes gleaming with a hint of deviousness that intrigues John to no end. “Yes, during the case.”

“But won’t that be… distracting?”

Sherlock smirks. “For my part, I won’t be focusing on our dynamics while the sting is in progress. I’ll just be… doing my job, as it were. I’ll remain focused solely on my professional objective. Once the case concludes, I’ll come home, and we’ll _unwind,_ just like normal.”

“But… where does that leave me?”

“Here. Waiting for me to come home so you can dominate me and punish me for my transgression.”

A full-body shudder wracks its way up John’s spine. He takes a moment to center himself, the scenario playing out in his mind. “So you’ll seduce Hassan, then come home to me, and we’ll start our session?”

Sherlock nods. “Precisely. So yes, I’ll still be leading a man on, but to use your words, he’s not a very _nice_ man, after all, and once the case is concluded, I’ll be in the mood for a session regardless. It’s a win-win.”

John licks his lips, the possibilities manifesting themselves slowly as he mulls it over. “I’m… intrigued, admittedly. But I don’t know how I’ll feel just sitting here in the flat, waiting for you to come back from your conquest.” Even as he says the words, John’s prick gives a traitorous twitch. Something about what Sherlock is proposing is arousing in a vague, undefinable way that John can’t quite yet quantify.

Sherlock nods his head. “I thought as much. So I’ve arranged a little entertainment for you, should you get bored: I’ll send you a link to the live stream of the security footage from the club that I’ve had my source hack.” (John’s well aware that Sherlock has a member of his Homeless Network that he outsources to for projects like this.) “It’s the same live feed that’s going to Lestrade, so he’ll know when to move in. If you feel so inclined, you’ll be able to… watch.”

And just like that, John’s cock goes from ‘interested’ to _‘completely, irrevocably invested.’_ He does his best to nonchalantly pool the sheets around his groin, but the flick of Sherlock’s eyes to his lap reveals his efforts are in vain, and Sherlock’s lips quirk up into a satisfied grin.

John clears his throat. “That… um, that would be… good, I think.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “So it’s a deal, then? I’ll go do my bit, you’ll wait for me here, and then...”

“I’ll make you beg for mercy. _So much more than twice.”_ John’s voice has grown low and gruff, and there’s heat in Sherlock’s eyes as he meets them.

“Then it’s a deal.”

“Deal.”

Sherlock gives a curt nod. “Good. I’ll be on my way, there’s still endless preparations to be made for the operation.” He rises and makes his way towards the door, before throwing John a mildly amused glance over his shoulder. “You should have a wank. As much as I’d enjoy watching you attempt to struggle through your morning routine without relief, I imagine you’ll be infinitely more productive if you take care of it now.” And with that, he disappears down the hall.

John can barely put two thoughts together, but he’s coherent enough to show _restraint._ As satisfying as some instant gratification would be, he’s actually keen to sustain the low simmer of arousal coursing through his veins. He simply stretches, fetches his dressing gown, and makes his way to the bathroom for a cold shower.

After all, there’s no time to dally; there were preparations to be made. Sherlock wouldn’t be the only one spending the day preparing for what was to come.

John grins to himself, and gets to work.

**********************************

John spends the day running errands of a very _different_ variety than the ones he’d done the day before.

He does a considerable amount of research before he heads out, and formulates a vague plan for what he’d like their impending session to be. As much as he enjoys the spontaneous sessions they have, there’s something gloriously _empowering_ about having the time to meticulously plan the paces he’s about to put Sherlock through. It gives him a wild, heady high, knowing that Sherlock is puttering about, oblivious, while John is systematically orchestrating his utter surrender. It’s been a while since John’s had the opportunity; the last time he’d had enough warning to plan something special, he’d purchased the jute rope that they’d been experimenting with during their recent bondage sessions, and Christ, their first time using it had been nothing short of _spectacular._

John grins smugly as his battle plan takes shape.

By the time he’s procured all the necessary items (he’d had to go to four separate shops, and despite the fact he’d worn sunglasses, a hat, and his most shapeless hoodie, his face still burned with mortification as he stepped out of each one, the contents of the bags in his hands seeming to glow red-hot within their incriminatingly mundane packaging), the sun is low and the air unavoidably brisk. Despite the chill, he feels a warmth radiating deep in his gut: a dark throb of anticipation. His jeans feel distinctly tight as he makes his way through the emptying streets.

He arrives home to find the flat dark and empty. Sherlock had already left, then, and John hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye. He feels a light twinge of panic, but he tamps it down; he objectively knows Sherlock is capable and that Lestrade would monitor the situation closely, but something about Sherlock being in harm’s way without John there to have his back leaves him feeling vaguely unsettled.

But this was Sherlock’s choice, and John had to respect that. Throughout every form their relationship had ever taken, from its most cordial and platonic to its most heated and frenzied, John had always respected Sherlock’s boundaries when it came to the Work. The Work was his and his alone; John would defer to Sherlock’s lead. Though John never hesitated to throw himself into danger in order to keep Sherlock safe from his own hairbrained schemes, he knew better than to try and talk Sherlock out of them; he knew, and had known from Day 1, that Sherlock would not tolerate John’s interference on that front. The Work was sacred. It wasn’t John’s to share.

So John takes a deep breath and forces the negative thoughts from his head. His duty wasn’t to take care of Sherlock during the case tonight. His duty was to take care of him afterwards.

It’s not until he’s finished the last of his preparations and flipped open his laptop that he sees the new email from Sherlock. It’s the link to the livestream, and beneath it, “23:30.”

John checks the clock. He still has a few hours to kill.

It’s… unpleasant. When John had agreed to Sherlock’s plan, he hadn’t realised how difficult it would be to be here, alone in the flat, away from Sherlock, anticipating all they would do but knowing the test Sherlock would face before they’d get the chance. He thinks back to the time months ago that he’d agreed to a particularly intense session that Sherlock had requested as a birthday treat. The day before their session, Sherlock had been anxious and high-strung, texting John endlessly while he was at work and acting sullen and childish when John didn’t immediately respond. When John had inquired about it point-blank that night, Sherlock had confessed that anticipating a session whilst alone and bored had put him in an agitated headspace, and John’s beginning to think he understands exactly what Sherlock had been going through; he feels irritable, restless, and ill at ease. He runs through his plan for the session, then runs through it again. He makes dinner but finds himself without much of an appetite. He tries to watch telly, but he can’t focus on the drivel playing out on the screen; his mind keeps conjuring images of all the beautiful, depraved things he’s about to do to Sherlock, but they’re interspersed with visions of the sting going awry, leading to Sherlock’s endangerment or injury. 

He’s just started doing the dishes when he realises he’s placed all his weight on his left leg.

“Bloody _hell.”_ He says the words aloud to no one in particular. He’s beyond annoyed; he hasn’t limped in _ages,_ yet something as simple as Sherlock going on a sting without him has left him limping and lame? He swears under his breath. He couldn’t be limping tonight; surely Sherlock wouldn’t submit to him if he showed any sign of weakness… 

He turns off the tap and throws the sponge back into the sink in disgust. What self-respecting sub would submit to a lame dom? He would be _useless_ to Sherlock tonight, he’d _fail_ him, he…

He needs a drink. He blindly walks to the cupboard and grabs the bottle of whiskey. He’s nearly got the top unscrewed before he notices the chain wrapped around the neck of the bottle.

It’s his dog tags. And attached to them is a note, in Sherlock’s scrawling script.

_Looking forward to tonight.  
-SH_

Despite himself, John grins, then shakes his head. How Sherlock had known John would get himself worked up enough that he’d nearly broken his own rule and started drinking before a session, he has no idea, but he feels himself suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude for whatever intuition had forewarned him.

He puts the bottle back in the cupboard and takes his dog tags into the bedroom, where he places them on the nightstand. Then he goes back to the kitchen, pours himself a glass of water, picks up a book, and sits down in his chair to wait.

At exactly 23:30, he flips open his laptop and clicks on the link. He feels calmer than he has all day; somehow Sherlock’s gesture with the tags had profoundly settled him, and he feels calm, collected, and prepared. His hands are steady.

An image blinks to life on the screen. Rendered in black and white is the interior of a small office space. Even with the poor resolution of the feed, John can tell the place looks dingy: concrete floor, cinderblock walls, the oversized, ornate wooden desk at the centre of the frame almost humorously juxtaposed with its less-than-glamorous surroundings. And in the corner: the safe.

John can feel his breathing quicken.

He waits. His eyes flit eagerly about the screen, searching for any sign of movement, but for now, the office remains empty.

John shifts in his chair. The sitting room feels unnaturally bright. Perhaps he ought to dim the lights a bit? He rises and flicks off the light in the kitchen as well as the ones in the sitting room, save for the one in the far corner. He sits back down and checks the screen.

Nothing.

He waits some more.

An interminable 16 minutes later--

Movement. The light shifts and the room brightens; somewhere off-camera, a door’s been opened. Two figures emerge in front of the camera.

One is Hassan. John can’t tell from the grainy greyscale image, but it seems he’s all in black, from his shirt to his tie to his impeccably form-fitting suit. Though John’s not attracted to men, he’s objectively aware that Syed is conventionally attractive: high cheekbones, deep-set eyes framed by dark lashes, and a collected, confident presence that years in the family business had no doubt ingrained. Here in this moment, he’s staring at his companion with an expression of calculating nonchalance.

The other figure…

The other figure…

Is _Sherlock._

Except it’s not Sherlock at all.

Through the years, John has seen Sherlock slither into his disguises like a chameleon changing colour, but it never ceases to unnerve him every time. And the way he looks tonight--

Christ, he’s _beautiful._

John is instantly rock hard.

He blinks uncomprehendingly down at the screen, his brain attempting to quantify exactly what he’s seeing, and why it’s doing _this_ to him.

Perhaps it’s the clothes. Sherlock is wearing a pair of skin-tight black trousers (presumably jeans, not leather - John can’t imagine Sherlock tolerating something quite that frivolous), a studded belt, and a scandalously thin t-shirt that clings to his form like a second skin. Something about the ensemble makes him appear strangely youthful, in a surreal, disorientating way.

Or perhaps it’s the makeup. Yes, Sherlock has worn makeup for John before, the few times he’s cross-dressed for him and dolled himself up in silk and lace. But tonight, it’s a different look entirely: his face looks unnaturally pale and even, and his eyes are ringed with smudgy black liner, giving him a brooding, sultry appearance. His hair is lank and disheveled and despite the fact he rather looks as if he’s been living under an overpass stoned out of his mind, the overall effect is more haunting than disturbing.

But really, at the heart of it, it’s… well, what would one call them? The _accessories?_ John’s rubbish with these things, but all he knows is that _whatever_ you’d call the thick leather cuffs and matching collar Sherlock’s donning, it’s doing things to John’s cock that he was previously unaware that accessories could do.

The cuffs and collar are gorgeous. They’re sturdy and solid and each features a thick silver ring that John knows from the time he’s spent doing research about such things on the message boards he frequents (and yes, okay, maybe occasionally perusing a video or two) are used for bondage and leash play. The way they stand out against Sherlock’s delicate alabaster skin makes John _ache_ with want. Until this moment, he’d never considered cuffing and collaring Sherlock. Now, he wants it like a drowning man wants air.

There are other accessories, too. A strange, spiky cuff adorns the cartilage of Sherlock’s left ear, and metal hoops are looped through his right eyebrow, left nostril, and lower lip. The piercings only serve to add to the youthful illusion, and in the low resolution of the video, John could almost believe Sherlock had dropped a decade and a half off his age. It’s marvelously uncanny.

John absently begins to palm his burgeoning erection through his trousers.

Suddenly, Hassan turns and says something to Sherlock. There’s no audio on the feed, but Sherlock shrugs sullenly and blinks back at Hassan through thick, mascara-clumped lashes before averting his gaze to the ground and crossing his arms in front of himself. He looks every bit the belligerent youth.

Hassan moves so fast John barely has time to register it. Before he knows what’s happened, Sherlock’s slammed back against the wall, Hassan’s fist wrapped around his wrists, which he’s pinned up above his head. Sherlock’s eyes are wide with surprise and tinged with fear, and Hassan takes a moment to gaze at him, a predatory smile on his face. Then he _attacks._

He bites his way down Sherlock’s neck as Sherlock arches and strains, but Hassan keeps his wrists locked steadfastly above his head. Then he steps forward, kicks Sherlock’s legs apart, slots himself between them, and begins to thrust against him at a punishing pace.

Arousal is replaced instantaneously by a burning, all-consuming _rage_ the likes of which John is fairly certain he’s never experienced before. The audacity of this _man,_ this _stranger,_ to _touch_ Sherlock like that, to place his body against his, when Sherlock belongs to John and _only_ John, it’s unacceptable, it’s perverse, it’s unnatural, it’s…

On the screen, Sherlock tips his head back and closes his eyes. He opens his mouth and moans.

John’s so hard he can’t breathe.

Anger and rage and jealousy and testosterone have formed a potent cocktail pulsing through his bloodstream, and some part of him, the strange, twisted part of him that makes him the way he _is_ (just like the twisted part of Sherlock that makes him the way he _is,_ in that beautiful, perfectly complementary way) is gorging on those toxic emotions and transforming them into a wave of arousal so powerful that John feels paralysed in its wake.

Jesus _Christ._

What was wrong with him? What was wrong with _them?_

But the moment the thought crosses his mind, he hears Sherlock’s voice as clear as day: “There is _nothing_ wrong with me, and there is _nothing_ wrong with us.” Sherlock had once told John that, after John had broken down following a session during which he’d fucked Sherlock while Sherlock had sobbed and begged for mercy. John had felt mortified and ashamed by his actions, but Sherlock, in all his wisdom, had reminded John that if this is what they both wanted, then there was nothing -- _nothing_ \-- wrong with it.

On the screen, Hassan is whispering something into Sherlock’s ear as he ruts against him. Sherlock’s eyes are scrunched shut and he’s nodding helplessly, head tipped back and body limp against Hassan’s assault. There’s still no audio on the feed, but John doesn’t need it to know the exact sounds Sherlock would be making.

Without warning, Hassan suddenly releases Sherlock’s wrists, steps away from him, then grabs him by the hair and hurls him to the floor.

John’s initial reaction is abject horror; surely Sherlock didn’t intend to actually allow Hassan to _hurt_ him? But before he can get carried away, he notices it: though Sherlock makes quite a show of sprawling clumsily to his hands and knees, he catches himself a split second before his kneecaps hit the ground, then lowers them the rest of the way.

John grins. He’d been anticipating the move, then. Hassan’s not getting the better of him; Sherlock’s just making a good show of it.

Sherlock blinks up at Hassan from his position of apparent supplication, and Hassan leers down at him, stepping ever closer before grabbing him by the hair and yanking his head backwards into an unnatural angle.

For one terrifying moment, John thinks Hassan might pull out his cock and demand Sherlock suck him off then and there, and John hasn’t the faintest idea of how Sherlock would talk himself out of that situation. But it soon becomes apparent that Hassan’s not interested in that quite yet; instead, he seems to merely be _talking._

For a moment, John’s entirely flummoxed; what could Hassan possibly be saying that could warrant such a pause in the action? He leans closer to the screen and focuses on Hassan’s lips.

_“...Fucking whore...little slut...make it good…”_

He’s calling him names.

John blinks a few times. Sherlock hated to be called dirty names.

And John had always suspected he knew why: because Sherlock had confessed that before John, the men he’d been with were often cruel towards him, and Sherlock had never been able to make himself believe that he deserved better.

Men like Hassan.

How fucking _typical._

John wants to rip his throat out with his bare hands.

But before he can reflect on that impulse, Hassan is pulling Sherlock to his feet, spinning him around, and pushing his torso down over the desk. He grabs his arms and pulls his wrists together behind his back and holds them there before stepping forward and beginning to frot against Sherlock’s arse.

Sherlock makes to struggle, but Hassan uses his free hand to grab him by the collar and force him down. Sherlock goes boneless, and Hassan grins down at him before releasing his collar and swinging his hand down resolutely over Sherlock’s left buttock.

Sherlock tenses.

Hassan repeats the action.

Sherlock’s eyes roll back and he moans, arching to present his arse more enticingly. Hassan takes the bait and reigns down a series of well-placed slaps onto Sherlock’s pert backside.

Hitting is a hard limit for the two of them, and John knows he’d never want to indulge in the activity himself, but something about _watching_ Sherlock’s arse at the receiving end of such attention is undeniably more intriguing than John had previously suspected. He watches with rapt attention as Hassan continues his ministrations, Sherlock spreading his legs enticingly as Hassan continues to move against him.

Eventually, Hassan relinquishes his grip and steps back, leaving Sherlock trembling and limp across the desk. He hauls him up by the collar and drags him over to the wall once more before reaching up for something suspended from the ceiling, just out of frame. When he pulls it down, a shiver runs down John’s spine: shackles.

Hassan forces Sherlock’s arms above his head and claps the metal cuffs around Sherlock’s wrists as Sherlock lists dizzily to the side. By the time Hassan steps away, Sherlock is well-immobilized, his his eyelids low and pupils blown, lost in lust. Hassan gives a satisfied nod before stepping forward and pulling Sherlock’s shirt up.

John’s brain short-circuits. 

Sherlock is wearing nipple clamps.

They’re small and silver and connected by a thin chain and they’re perhaps the most erotic thing John has ever seen. He knows Sherlock has extremely sensitive nipples and while he’s enjoyed stimulating them during their sessions before (with his fingers, his tongue, his teeth, or with ice or clothes pegs or anything else on-hand), he’d never had the guts to buy proper clamps; he’d thought perhaps it would be just a bit _too_ kinky for their taste, or perhaps too uncomfortable for Sherlock, considering how sensitive he was in that region.

But it appears that wasn’t the case. Because Sherlock is arching, presenting his chest for Hassan’s perusal, and Hassan is grinning and saying something John can’t quite identify, then he’s dipping his head to suck and lick at the tender nubs trapped in their metal prisons.

Initially, John had been quite relieved that there was no audio on the feed; he wasn’t quite sure how he’d feel about actually _hearing_ Sherlock express his pleasure at the hands of another. But now, he wants to hear him so badly it leaves him breathless. Sherlock’s clearly shouting, wailing, crying out as Hassan tortures his nipples, straining against the shackles suspending him from the ceiling, helpless against Hassan’s ministrations. 

After a seeming eternity, Hassan is finally satisfied. He stands back up to his full height, lowers Sherlock’s shirt once more, and then cups his face and kisses him passionately.

It’s… strangely unobjectionable. While the territorial impulses haven’t ebbed, having the ability to _watch_ Sherlock when he’s like this is completely different than experiencing it _with_ him. Sure, back in the day before they’d entered into a physical relationship, John had occasionally fantasized about what Sherlock would look like during a sexual encounter (the details were often blurry and his imagined partner was always a woman, as at that point John was still attempting to convince himself that he wasn’t attracted to Sherlock _like that),_ but seeing him in action is a privilege John’s never partaken in before.

Because Sherlock is beautiful like this. He’s sultry and lustful and brilliant and consuming, and while John wants nothing more than to be _with_ him, to be the _source_ of his pleasure, there’s something uniquely indulgent about watching him be taken apart without having to lift a finger.

When Hassan finally steps away, Sherlock looks _destroyed._ He’s shaking with desperation, straining against the shackles, the smudged liner around his eyes accenting the desire pooling within them. Hassan says something. Sherlock nods blearily.

With than, Hassan walks to the back of the room to a door with a keypad next to it. He punches in a code and the door opens. He walks through it and closes it behind him.

John’s eyes snap back to Sherlock, and before he can help himself, a giggle has escaped from his lips.

Because the change is _instantaneous._ Mere seconds ago, Sherlock had looked completely helpless, wanton and meek and lust-drunk, sagging against his bindings and submitting to Hassan’s will. But now, he’s standing fully upright, eyes wide and alert, posture collected and composed. He’s eyeing the door Hassan had just walked through as he strains his wrists against the shackles.

John’s admittedly intrigued. Surely Sherlock had anticipated Hassan would restrain him; there’s no way a man as cautious as Hassan would leave an escort unattended in his private offices. John knows Sherlock must have a plan here, and he can’t wait to see what it is.

Sure enough, Sherlock’s hands twist and contort, and moments later, he’s procured his handy lock-picking tool from-- where the hell had he been hiding it?

_The leather cuffs!_

That would explain it. The leather cuffs were thick and substantial enough that Sherlock could easily have hidden the small tool inside them, and Hassan would never suspect Sherlock’s bondage gear served an ulterior motive.

Moments later, the shackles are open and Sherlock is free, making a beeline for the safe.

He crouches down to stare at the keypad.

And then simply stays there.

30 seconds.

45\. 

A minute.

John can feel his heart rate increasing. Hassan would undoubtedly be back soon, and Sherlock hadn’t so much as made an _attempt_ at the safe. What the hell was he waiting for? Was he looking for something? And what the hell would happen if he couldn’t find it in time?

Suddenly, he springs to his feet. John actually jumps he’s so startled, and then he leans forward to peer more closely at the screen.

Sherlock has turned and is looking at something on Hassan’s desk. It’s an oversized piece of paper of some sort, though with the graininess of the footage, John can’t make anything out besides that.

Seconds later, Sherlock turns back to the safe. He kneels, punches in 4 numbers, and the door swings open.

John lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. But his relief is short-lived-- Sherlock was still in danger, and the timing would have to work out just right to ensure the plan went off without a hitch.

Sherlock pushes the safe door shut just enough that it’s barely ajar, then he rises and makes his way back to the shackles. He manages to re-fasten them (someone ungracefully, John notes; they extend his arms enough that he has to rise up onto his tiptoes to get them latched), then slumps back into character. 

Seconds later, Hassan walks back into the room.

He’s carrying a bag with him, the contents of which John can’t discern. He deposits it unceremoniously on the floor and makes his way over to Sherlock. He must be speaking to him, because Sherlock is nodding, and the next thing John knows, Hassan has spun Sherlock around so that he’s facing the wall, his hands still immobilised above his head.

Hassan rucks up his t-shirt and laughs. John’s breath catches in his throat.

Because Sherlock’s back is a warzone, hatched with thick, unconcealable scars as a result of his capture and internment in Serbia. And while John knows about their painful origin and how ashamed Sherlock is of them, Hassan, it seems, is under the impression that they were the marks of a sub who delighted in scarification. He’s running his hands greedily over them, murmuring into Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock’s head lolls to the side and he shivers.

Hassan turns and pulls something from his bag.

It’s a whip.

No. No, no, this can’t happen. Where the hell was Lestrade? Surely he was supposed to be there by now, hadn’t he seen that Sherlock’s attempt had been successful? How far away was the van where he was monitoring the situation? How long would it take for him to move in?

On screen, Hassan is running the tails of the whip through his fingers. There’s a special name for a whip like that, John remembers seeing it mentioned on the message boards somewhere… a _cat something?_ Hell, it doesn’t matter, all that matters now is that the leather in Hassan’s hand not touch Sherlock’s back. If he hurts Sherlock, if he hurts Sherlock _there,_ John is going to fucking kill him. There would be no apologies or regret. He _cannot_ hurt Sherlock there.

On screen, Hassan winds up and aims to take the first blow at Sherlock’s marred flesh. Sherlock’s shoulders tense and flex in the unforgiving light.

At that moment, a tangle of bodies floods through the door, a mess of shields and uniforms and blurry faces moving too quickly for John to process. The next thing he knows, the tables have turned: Hassan is up against the wall with his hands cuffed behind his back, and Sherlock is free, stepping away from his bindings and spouting what appears to be orders at the arresting officers (judging by the minorly peeved look on their faces). In the corner, Lestrade is gesturing wildly as he pulls stacks of bonds from the interior of the safe.

John slumps back into his chair.

It had worked, then.

The sting had fucking _worked._

He takes a deep breath. He notes his erection has waned almost completely; the thrill of the actual sting had completely subsumed the erotic nature of the trap, and John realises he’s more hopped up on adrenaline than arousal. 

Well, that wouldn’t do. Sherlock would be arriving home soon, expecting John to dominate him, for John to take care of him. John needed to have his game face on.

He snaps his laptop shut and deposits it on the end table, then makes his way into the bedroom, where he reviews the scene he’s set. He sits quietly on the edge of the bed and mentally reviews the itinerary he’s planned for tonight one more time. But this time it’s _infinitely_ better, because his brain helpfully supplies plenty of images from what he’s just witnessed to enhance the scene: Sherlock’s outfit. His makeup. His hair. His accessories-- Christ, the cuffs, the clamps, the way he’d looked as Hassan bit and licked his tender skin, the way his lips had looked against Hassan’s as he let himself be taken apart, and oh, no, John couldn’t allow for that, couldn’t allow Sherlock to be taken like that, because Sherlock was _his, only his,_ he’d need to remind him of that, need to make Sherlock pay for his transgression, make Sherlock submit so completely he’d forget Hassan’s name, oh God, oh _God--_

John manages to yank his hand away from his erection just in time, the sharp tension of orgasm threatening to overtake him. He breathes deeply and centres himself. His mind feels purposeful, practiced and sure. He’s ready for Sherlock to come home.

The wait is interminable.

John paces. He drinks some more water. He sits. He stands. He paces some more.

Time feels slippery and unquantifiable. He doesn’t check his watch.

At long last, a sound.

The door downstairs is opening. Footfalls on the staircase, skipping the squeaky step with practiced nuance. A fumbling at the doorknob.

And then Sherlock steps through the door. John freezes where he’s standing beside the fireplace, back straight and muscles coiled in anticipation. Sherlock closes the door behind himself, removes his Belstaff and tosses it on the sofa, then turns to meet John’s eyes.

There’s an unspoken question in the air between them.

_Are you alright?_

_Yes, and you?_

_Yes. Do you still want this?_

_Yes. And you?_

_Yes._

Not a word is uttered aloud, but Sherlock simply gives John the tiniest nod of his head, barely perceivable to the naked eye. John returns the nod in kind, and then releases his grasp on reality, letting himself be pulled under into this fantasy they’ve brought to life.

“Hello, sweetheart.”

“Hello, John.”

“You’re looking lovely this evening.”

“Thank you, John.”

John takes a few steps in Sherlock’s direction, and Sherlock visibly stiffens. John stops dead in his tracks and sniffs the air. There’s a faint waft of aftershave, spicy and foreign, and it lingers between them like a poisonous fog.

John narrows his eyes and closes the distance, pressing his nose against the side of Sherlock’s neck before letting out an irritated huff.

“You smell like another man.”

Sherlock swallows and averts his eyes.

“Look at me, _darling._ Have you let another man touch you tonight?”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock’s voice is so low it’s barely a whisper.

“You let him put his lips and tongue on you?”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock closes his eyes briefly before opening them again. He looks almost… exasperated? No, John must be reading it wrong...

“Did you let him have you?”

Sherlock’s eyes are still gazing at something in the corner of the room. “No, John. I merely--”

“Shut up.” John cocks his head appraisingly. “Your behaviour tonight was unacceptable. Do you understand that?”

Sherlock gives a curt, reluctant nod.

“You’re going to have to pay for what you’ve done. I’m going to be forced to remind you who you belong to, and you’ll simply have to endure it. Whatever I want tonight, I’ll be taking it. Is that understood?”

Sherlock blinks twice, then his jaw sets in a strange way John doesn’t recognise from their sessions before. “Why?”

John is completely taken aback. “Because, _darling,_ you let another man touch you. You let him put his hands on you. You--”

“So what?”

“So _what?”_ John takes two steps away from Sherlock, out of his personal space, pulling himself up to his full height, but to his surprise Sherlock merely stares him down. “You think I’m willing to share you? You think I won’t stake my claim? You think I’ll let you galavant about like--” (John pauses as he frantically searches for a word Sherlock won’t find offensive, and, finding none, attempts to divert his train of thought) “...like you’re free to do as you please, regardless of what I want? Hmm? Is that what you think?”

Sherlock gives a cavalier shrug.

John’s blood boils. “Kneel.”

Sherlock sneers back at him. “Make me.”

Oh, _shit,_ it was going to be one of _those_ sessions.

A vast majority of the time, as soon as they started a session, Sherlock would slip into his submissive headspace. He’d go pliant and subservient, so desperate and eager to please John that he’d practically be tripping over himself to follow John’s every command, frantically committing himself to John’s pleasure.

But then there were the rare times like this one.

The times he wants to struggle and scrap. The times he wants to _fight._ The times he wants John to _force_ him down.

John takes a deep breath. He can do this. Of course he can. It wasn’t part of his plan for tonight, but he can be flexible. If this is what Sherlock needs, by God, he’ll provide it.

Sherlock just stares at him, awaiting his reaction. When John doesn’t move, Sherlock rolls his eyes and turns away from him, taking two steps towards the kitchen.

John is on him in an instant. His attack isn’t elegant, but he throws himself into it with every ounce of force he has, and it’s clear that’s enough to take Sherlock by surprise. He launches himself onto Sherlock’s back, wrapping his arm around his neck to capture him in a choke hold while at the same time driving his foot into the back of Sherlock’s knee-- not hard enough to actually harm him, but enough to throw him completely off-balance. Sherlock staggers forward and throws out his arms, barely catching himself on the doorframe of the kitchen, uttering a frustrated cry from deep within his now-compressed throat.

John half expects him to go down, but he quickly realises he’s completely underestimated exactly how feisty Sherlock is feeling tonight. Sherlock hurls himself away from the doorframe and lets John’s weight drag him backwards, slamming John bodily into the closed front door.

The impact takes John by surprise. Though they’ve gotten into the occasional scrap at the start of a session before, this is the first time it’s ever felt like Sherlock was _actually_ trying to fight John off, and he struggles to keep his cool as he feels the wind knocked out of him entirely. He’s forced to relinquish his hold across Sherlock’s throat, and Sherlock takes the opportunity to scramble away, backing towards the centre of the room as John attempts to regain his bearings slumped against the door.

As quickly as he can, he rights himself. Sherlock is standing in the centre of the sitting room, muscles coiled, eyes narrowed--John’s well aware that he’s lost the element of surprise at this point. He’ll have to fall back on strategy instead.

He doesn’t let himself hesitate. He takes one deliberate step in Sherlock’s direction, and with the next, he drops to a crouch. He lowers his shoulder to strike Sherlock in the chest, and with his arms he grabs Sherlock behind the knees and _pulls._

The move works like a charm. Sherlock goes down _fast,_ but flails ferociously along the way. The moment his back hits the rug, he’s already twisting, flipping John underneath him. John bucks his hips up with all of his strength to avoid letting Sherlock get the upper hand, rolling them once more.

The sound of the end table crashing noisily to the floor startles them both, and John uses Sherlock’s momentary distraction to his full advantage: He rucks Sherlock’s t-shirt up and wraps his fingers around the chain of the nipple clamps, pulling it taught.

Sherlock freezes, an animalistic howl escaping his throat. John grins lecherously down at him.

“Mmm, what’s this, darling? Seems you’ve got a bit of a pressure point here, hmm?” He gives the chain a little tug and Sherlock’s eyes go wide and desperate, and he keens once more. John pulls himself up and straddles Sherlock’s pelvis, pinning Sherlock’s hips to the ground and securing the upper hand. He notes with satisfaction that Sherlock is rock-hard beneath him; apparently this is _exactly_ what he wants.

John peers down at Sherlock’s face, twisted in a combination of apparent rage and agony. John puts on his most neutral expression, then reaches down to give one inflamed bud a light flick.

Sherlock wails, tipping his head back and slamming his eyes shut, his breathing ragged and uneven. “Please! Nnnnng, please!”

“Please what, darling?”

“Please… please _something, anything, whatever you want, fuck!”_ A light sheen of sweat is forming on Sherlock’s brow, and he squirms helplessly in a way that makes John’s cock give a resolute throb.

“Hmmm, fuck, you say? Now, there’s a lovely idea, sweetheart, perhaps the best one you’ve had all night. Glad to hear you’re thinking straight again, with that big, beautiful brain of yours. How about I fuck you and remind you just who your arse belongs to?”

“Nnnng, yes, John, please, anything!”

John heaves a withering sigh and rolls off of Sherlock, still not relinquishing his hold on the chain between the clamps. 

“Sit up.” John gives the chain a light tug, and Sherlock whimpers as he pushes himself into a sitting position

“Kneel.” Another tug, pulling the chain towards himself. Sherlock scrambles to adjust and alleviate the pressure, rising willingly onto his knees.

“Hands and knees.” John pulls down lightly and Sherlock drops forward, head lolling heavily as he goes down.

“Mmm, that’s lovely. Now, love, I’m going to let go of the chain for a moment. If you’re good and stay here, you’ll be rewarded. If you try and get away, so help me God, you won’t be coming tonight, and I’ll make you sorry you ever set foot in this flat. Understood?”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock’s voice is low and wet.

John releases the chain and quickly rises to make his way to the sofa, where he thrusts his hand between the cushions, desperately seeking the tube of lube they’ve taken to keeping there for emergency situations. Moments later he finds his prize, and quickly makes his way back across the room to kneel behind Sherlock’s trembling form.

He unfastens Sherlock’s belt and trousers and yanks them roughly down around his thighs. His left arsecheek is still shockingly pink from the spanking he’d been dealt, and a fresh jolt of jealousy spikes through John’s veins as he recalls Hassan placing his hand there. 

As though Sherlock’s arse were something John would _ever_ share. Outrageous.

John pours a bit of lube onto his finger and reaches down to spread Sherlock’s cheeks before stuffing his digit rather recklessly inside. Sherlock lets out a grunt but remains still; John’s pleased to note he seems to be entering his submissive headspace now; he’s no longer making so much as a peep of protest.

He pistons his finger in and out a few times, not enough to stretch Sherlock, but enough to distribute a substantial amount of lube inside him and around his rim. He hadn’t really wanted to take Sherlock roughly tonight; the plans he’d made for later were fairly intense, even for the two of them, and he hadn’t wanted to overwhelm Sherlock straight out of the gate. But when Sherlock was like this, reluctant to go down, John knew the best way to placate him was with a rough fuck.

Satisfied, John withdraws his finger and then pours more lube into the palm of his hand and pulls out his own turgid length. Knowing time was of the essence, he reaches one arm around Sherlock until his fingers tangle in the nipple clamp chain once more, and he uses his other hand to line himself up. Then he simultaneously tugs the chain and thrusts inside.

And _Christ,_ it’s perfect. Sherlock is hot and tight and something about the pressure on his nipples makes him clamp down even more deliciously around John’s cock than usual. He utters a broken shout as John penetrates him, and John allows himself a loud, luxurious moan as he sinks completely inside.

He doesn’t move right away. He gives Sherlock a moment to adjust to the stretch as John toys with the clamps. Sherlock shudders and groans, but he doesn’t fight. After a moment, he drops to his forearms, letting his forehead go to the ground. He’s finally ready.

John proceeds to fuck him in earnest. It’s inelegant and brutal and frankly a bit more vanilla than John had been planning, but it’s satisfying nonetheless. Sherlock makes a series of rather lovely, pained noises as John has his way with him, increasing in volume every time John gives the chain a brief tug. Before too long, John can feel the dark heat of orgasm coiling in his gut, and he speeds up his pace before yanking more resolutely at the chain.

Sherlock screams, but as predicted, his arse clenches deliciously around John’s prick as the pain from his nipples overwhelms him. John grins and yanks again to similar results, and Sherlock utters a cry so erotic that John finds his orgasm rushing upon him.

In one fluid motion, he pulls his cock out and gives the chain a final yank, the clips snapping away from Sherlock’s nipples. Sherlock goes completely silent for a moment, his entire body rigid, then he proceeds to cry out loudly enough that John would be concerned Mrs. Turner was going to call the cops again-- were he not too distracted by the fact he’s coming all over the back of Sherlock’s left thigh.

He finishes with a noncommittal grunt, reaching down and giving his cock a few quick strokes as he rides out the aftershocks of his orgasm, depositing the last of his come onto Sherlock’s milky skin. Before him, Sherlock is quivering as he lapses into silence.

Finally, John tucks himself back into his pants, fastens his trousers, and stands up. Sherlock doesn’t move.

“Get up.”

Sherlock manages to lift his forehead off the floor and slowly clambers to his feet. He looks unsteady and slightly drunk, and his nipples are so red John nearly gasps in sympathy when he sees them. He takes a quick internal assessment; though Sherlock’s nipples are clearly irritated, there’s no sign of restricted blood flow, so they seem to be in the clear. 

“Strip. Leave the cuffs and collar on.”

Sherlock complies so quickly John’s frankly a bit startled; he’d expected him to be a bit hazier by this point, but hell, he wasn’t complaining. He’s even _more_ thrilled to note that, on top of everything else, Sherlock had taken it upon himself to wear a pair of matching leather ankle cuffs as well; the sight of the leather beneath his generously muscled calves does something to John he’s quite sure he’s not experienced before.

But now was not the time to dwell on aesthetics. “Go to the kitchen and bend over the table. Keep your hands on the opposite corners. You know how I like it.” 

“Yes, John.”

This is a common position John has Sherlock assume when they’re unwinding and John wants Sherlock to demonstrate his subservience; he’ll order Sherlock to keep his hands on the corners of the kitchen table while John does simply _marvelous_ things to him, and it’s up to Sherlock to remain in control with his hands correctly in place.

John watches as Sherlock willingly assumes the position. His alabaster skin seems to glow beneath the florescent light of the kitchen, punctuated by the pops of sumptuous black leather.

Christ.

John takes a mental picture and forces himself to move on.

He breezes past Sherlock and enters the bedroom, where he snatches the first of his ammunition for tonight from where he’d placed it on the nightstand.

He returns to the kitchen to find Sherlock obediently in place. Upon John’s arrival, Sherlock spreads his legs, and John hums his approval.

“That’s lovely, sweetheart. My, look at that, you’ve got my come all over you.” He runs his fingers through where his deposit was glistening on the back of Sherlock’s thigh, and rubs it across his inflamed arsecheek. “You’re looking better already, love, the improvement really is substantial. Now, let’s make sure we keep you nice and ready for the rest of our evening together, hmm?”

“Yes, please, John.” Sherlock’s voice is low and muzzy.

With a pleased hum, John pops the top off the bottle of lubricant (the expensive, civilised kind they keep in the bedroom, none of the travel-sized glop from the sitting room sofa) and proceeds to thoroughly coat his fingers. “Now just hold still, love. Be good, now.”

And with that, John pushes his fingers past Sherlock’s inflamed rim. Sherlock stiffens and jerks, but he doesn’t fight, and his knuckles whiten as the grips the edges of the table with renewed intensity. He must be tender after the intense rogering John’s just dealt him, but he remains complacent. 

John begins to relax. The evening was back on track, then.

He fingers Sherlock for a long time, adding more lube every few minutes until Sherlock is sloppy and slick with it. From his position on the table, Sherlock is issuing contented little hums, and John delights in knowing that this seems to be entertaining Sherlock’s overstimulation kink rather splendidly.

At long last, John is satisfied. He withdraws his fingers and spreads Sherlock’s cheeks wide, peering down at his glistening hole.

“Mmm, beautiful. Nice and open for me. Now let’s keep you that way, hmm?” And with that, John pulls Sherlock’s anal plug from his pocket and slips it inside. Sherlock is so well-prepped that there’s hardly any resistance, and he merely sighs contentedly as the plug nestles into place.

“Stand up. Good, sweetheart. To the bedroom, now. You can walk, no need to crawl. Perfect, there we go love, just like that.”

Sherlock enters the bedroom, and stops dead in his tracks, taking in the scene before him, blinking rapidly. John can practically hear his brain whirring as he makes his deductions about what John has in store.

John’s affixed a length of jute rope to each bedpost, the loose end trailing towards the centre of the bed, awaiting Sherlock’s arrival. There’s little mystery to his intentions here, but John hastens to remove all doubt.

“Get in the centre of the bed face-down, love. Yes, perfect, brilliant, you’re amazing, sweetheart. Hold still, now. Let me have you like I want you.”

And with that, John approaches the bed and lovingly takes Sherlock’s hand in his, extending it towards the bedpost before looping the jute rope through the silver ring affixed to his leather cuff.

John had admittedly just been planning to use the rope on Sherlock’s wrists, but the opportunity provided by the cuffs is too glorious to waste. He takes his time securing each of Sherlock’s cuffs to the corresponding rope, locking him starfished in the centre of the bed, helpless and completely at John’s mercy. By the time he’s finished tying Sherlock into place, John’s cock is already beginning to swell once more.

But he needs a break. They both do. The start of their session had been intense, and it’s clear they both need a moment to centre themselves.

John bends down and takes Sherlock’s chin in his hand, turning his face upwards. Then he leans down and plunders Sherlock’s mouth with a ruthless kiss. Sherlock moans and goes pliant, sinking into the mattress as though a weight has been dropped upon him.

John rights himself and steps away.

“That’s gorgeous, sweetheart. You’re being very good for me now, but I’m afraid we’re just getting started. You were very, _very_ bad tonight, and I’m afraid I’ll have to make you pay for what you’ve done. You understand, don’t you, love?”

“Yes, John.”

“Mmm. Good. Rest now. We have a lot of work to do.”

And with that, John turns and walks out of the room.

He makes his way back to the sitting room, where he goes to the desk and procures his book of Sudoku and a pencil, then plops himself down in his chair and opens it to the dog-eared page.

John Watson hates Sudoku.

He hates it with the fiery passion of a thousand suns. He finds it tedious, pointless, unbelievably boring, and endlessly frustrating.

Which is why he’d bought a book of them to use during their longer sessions.

Because Sherlock loved to be taken multiple times in one session, and his frankly _unfairly_ short refractory period allowed for such indulgences without qualms.

John, however, was not blessed with whatever ridiculous gene allowed Sherlock to get off multiple times within a span of an hour or two. He’d initially thought it had something to do with prostate stimulation (Sherlock was only able to achieve multiple orgasms in quick succession when prostate stimulation was involved), but after some experimentation, John had resigned himself to the fact that it wasn’t a prostate thing, it was just a _Sherlock_ thing. Lucky wanker.

And while John knows he’s no slouch, particularly for a man of his age, he always needed at least the better part of an hour to reset following each orgasm. But lucky for him, Sherlock also expressed a proclivity for being left tied up and debauched in the interim, so it generally worked out rather swimmingly for them both.

The only thing John had still been struggling with was what to _do_ while he waited. He’d tried browsing the internet. He’d tried watching crap telly. He’d tried cooking (Christ, that had been a disaster), reading, and once, humiliatingly, knitting (he’d bashfully returned the borrowed needles and yarn to Molly the following week, declaring that the hobby just wasn’t for him, despite her protestations). But recently, he’d started trying Sudoku, and for some bloody reason he couldn’t comprehend, it _worked._

It was frustrating enough that he’d find himself laser-focused on the problem at-hand, his mind a thousand miles away from the depraved detective he’d left tied up in the bedroom. By the time he was ready to throw in the towel and give up on the puzzle altogether, he’d suddenly realise that an hour had passed and his cock was showing signs of renewed interest, and he’d toss the book back on the desk, puzzle unfinished, and return to the _much_ more pressing matters at hand.

He’s yet to complete a single puzzle in the entire damn book.

But hell, at least it worked.

So he settles into his chair, puts the pencil to paper, and gets to work.

He barely lasts 45 minutes. Despite the distraction his frustration provides, the knowledge of what he has in store for Sherlock next keeps popping into his brain in vibrant technicolour, and he finds himself all but quivering in anticipation to see what Sherlock’s reaction will be. He palms himself absently through his trousers as he erases the latest of his erroneous submissions to the page, then concludes he’s waited quite long enough, slaps the book closed, and deposits it back on the desk before returning to the bedroom.

Sherlock’s eyes are closed, and he looks blissfully relaxed, completely at odds with the rather compromising position he’s trapped in. John grins lecherously to himself as Sherlock’s eyes flutter open, his eyes brightening as he registers John’s arrival.

“Hi there, sweetheart. How are we feeling?”

Sherlock strains a bit against his bindings. “Mmm. Good, John.” His words are slightly slurred. He’s drifting, then, John notes with satisfaction-- perhaps he’s finally ready to properly submit.

There was only one way to find out. John plucks the lube from the nightstand and makes his way to the foot of the bed, clambering up between Sherlock’s spread-eagle legs and reaching between his pert cheeks to press against the plug.

“Oh, lovely, look at you, nice and open for me, hmm?”

“Yes, John.”

“Are you ready to be good while I have you again?”

“Yes, John.”

“Good. Deep breath, now.” With that, he removes the plug and sinks his fingers inside.

Sherlock is still gloriously slick, but John doesn’t allow himself to be deterred. He withdraws his fingers, coats them with lube, and slides them back inside.

Sherlock lets out an indignant huff.

“Everything alright there, sweetheart?”

“Nnngh. ‘S cold. You needn’t bother, I can take you.”

“I’m well aware of that, darling, but this isn’t really about what you can and can’t do, is it? It’s about what I _want_ from you. And if I want you nice and messy while I have you, that’s how it’s going to be. Understood?”

Sherlock nuzzles his face into the mattress before uttering a muffled, “Yes, John.”

“Good. Glad we’re clear on that.” John adds just a bit more lube before withdrawing his fingers and wiping them absently on the sheet before unfastening his trousers and pulling down his pants. 

“Alright, love. Remember the rules: If you want to stop, say stop. If you can’t speak, snap your fingers once for yes, twice for no. Understood?”

“Yes, John.”

“We can pause if you need to. Understood?”

“Yes, John.”

“Good. Now shh, hold still for me, be good.” And with that, John crouches over Sherlock’s prone form and guides his cock inside of him. Then he extends his body until he’s lying flush on top of Sherlock, before wrapping his left arm around his throat and securing it by gripping his right hand resolutely around his left wrist. He gives a light squeeze. “Yes?”

Sherlock snaps once more, and his body goes completely lax.

“Perfect.” And with that, John tightens his arm around Sherlock’s throat to restrict his air supply, and begins to thrust into him.

Sherlock initially submits beautifully. He doesn’t fight, he doesn’t even flinch, he simply drags in ragged breaths through his compressed airway as John fucks into him. John sighs in contentment and increases the depth of his strokes, delighting in how deliciously _wet_ Sherlock feels around him.

Oh, and that’s lovely, isn’t it? The feeling of his hot, tight channel, so full and slick and moist. It’s almost as if he’s already got a load in him… or two, or three… almost as if he’s been had a few times tonight, and he’s all fucked out and messy and full of come, John’s come, and maybe… maybe not John’s come, maybe another man’s, another man that now John has to erase, he has to replace, he has to…

And _nnngh,_ that’s a strange and weird and horrifying but somehow wildly arousing thought John’s really not let himself mull over before. He gasps at the wild headiness of it, at the deviousness, and wonders what Sherlock would think if he knew. Would he hate the thought? Or would he be intrigued? John’s suddenly reminded of the time he talked Sherlock through an erotic fantasy about Jude Law (Sherlock’s eternal celebrity crush), and near the end, Sherlock had begged John to let fantasy-Jude come inside him…

John’s thrusts grow frantic and he lets out a low growl as he tightens his arm, cutting off Sherlock’s air supply entirely.

That’s when Sherlock begins to struggle. John knows it’s not intentional, merely a fight-or-flight reaction to being completely choked, so he doesn’t berate Sherlock as he thrashes futilely against his bindings. He simply holds his arm steady, keeps count (as a doctor, he knows exactly how long he can deprive Sherlock of oxygen before things get risky), and pistons ruthlessly into him as Sherlock endures his test.

John continues to choke him, releasing his arm every so often to allow Sherlock a desperate gasp of air before cutting off his supply once more. Eventually, Sherlock stills. He’s submitted entirely.

John feels his orgasm approaching just in time, and he immediately releases Sherlock’s throat and raises himself up onto his hands and knees, pulling out and jerking himself off all over Sherlock’s lower back. Sherlock takes an anguished gasp of air before moaning as he feels the heat of John’s release spilling over his coccyx.

It’s perfectly fine, as orgasms go, though John feels a distinct pang of regret at having not finished inside Sherlock. But that was all part of the plan, and he knows he needs to stick to his agenda.

Beneath him, Sherlock lets out a wet moan and buries his face in the bedsheets.

“That was lovely, sweetheart. Deep breath, now, good, just like that, mmm.” John tucks himself back into his trousers and zips himself up before clambering off the bed and making his way round to brush the sweat-soaked curls away from Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock is glaring belligerent up at him, his expression rather different from the one of contented ravishment he was expecting.

“You alright, love?”

“Why didn’t you come inside me?” Sherlock’s tone is sharp, and he sounds altogether more bratty than John thought he’d be capable of at this point.

He takes a moment to centre himself before he replies. “Because, darling, you’re being punished. I give you my come when you’re good, when I’m claiming you. But tonight you were very uncooperative. You were ungrateful and bratty. You went out and selfishly sought satisfaction with another man, and I’m not one to turn a blind eye to that type of behaviour. Do you understand?”

He’s surprised to see that Sherlock looks properly abashed. He blinks a few times, looking almost tearful (crocodile tears? Sometimes it’s hard to tell when he’s like this), then manages to respond. “Yes, John. I understand.”

“Good, I’m glad we’re on the same page. But if you keep being good for me tonight, I’ll make sure you get your reward. Speaking of which, you were very lovely for me just now. Would you like a little treat?”

Sherlock’s eyes light up, and he strains lightly against his bindings. “Yes, please, John.”

“Alright, then. I’m going to have a bit of fun with you, and I want you to enjoy yourself. You’re allowed to come whenever you like, how does that sound?”

Sherlock beams. “Good, John.”

“Excellent.” With that, he gives Sherlock’s hair one last affectionate ruffle before making his way back around to the foot of the bed to kneel between Sherlock’s legs once more. 

He picks up the lube from where he’d left it haphazardly discarded on the mattress and slicks up three fingers. He uses his free hand to pull Sherlock’s cheeks apart, then plunges them inside.

“Nnnngh, oh, John, YES!” Sherlock flexes and strains to spread his legs further, and John grins down at him. He knows Sherlock loves overstimulation, and he’s surely getting quite sensitive after two rather harsh rounds of intercourse. That said, Sherlock’s passage is still wet with all the lube he’d inserted before, and he takes his time fingering his prostate and toying with his rim as Sherlock squirms and moans beneath him. 

A few times, he senses Sherlock getting close, but he backs off before he topples over the edge entirely. Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind; he’s rather occupied rutting gently against the mattress and uttering John’s name in his ridiculously sexy baritone.

Eventually, John decides he’s ready. He withdraws his fingers and adds even more lube, then presses back in with four fingers this time.

Sherlock goes silent and still.

“You with me, sweetheart?”

“Yes, John.”

“Is this still a yes?”

“...Yes, John.”

“Alright. This is going to get intense, love, so if you want to stop or even just pause for a bit, you say the words, okay?”

Sherlock swallows noisily. “Okay.”

It makes John a bit nervous doing this with Sherlock face-down, making it impossible to read his expression. But he knows this is also the easiest angle for these types of activities, and he reminds himself that he trusts Sherlock to know his limits. There is nothing but trust between the two of them.

Slowly, he begins to twist and scissor his four fingers, stretching Sherlock around them. Sherlock isn’t moaning anymore, just issuing high, breathy sighs as John works him over, but nothing he’s doing implies he’s in distress. His limbs hang loose against his bindings, and his breathing remains deep and even. John focuses on that, and works his fingers deeper inside.

John doesn’t let himself rush. He stimulates Sherlock slowly, methodically, stretching him in long, languid motions that make him quiver beneath John’s precise fingers. Eventually, John determines that Sherlock is as relaxed as he’s going to get. He adjusts his angle, and presses his four fingers deeper, up to his knuckles.

Sherlock lets out a strange, animalistic wail, and the next thing John knows, his hole is fluttering and pulsing around John’s fingers. He’s coming.

John takes his free hand and strokes it soothingly down Sherlock’s spine, gentling him through the onslaught of sensations.

“There we go, sweetheart, that’s it, let it happen. Shhh, I’ve got you now, you’re alright. Just relax, there we go…”

After a seeming eternity, Sherlock’s muscles go limp and he melts into the mattress, an oppressive silence falling over the room as John breathes deeply, maintaining control.

“Oh, love, that was gorgeous.” He withdraws his fingers and leans over to plant a kiss between Sherlock’s shoulderblades. Sherlock shudders but remains silent. “You still with me?”

John hears a barely audible “Yes, John,” but decides it’ll have to do. He plants once more kiss further down Sherlock’s spine and then rights himself, climbing off the bed and making his way to the nightstand, where he pulls out his next trick. Sherlock’s facing away from him, and strangely, he doesn’t even make to turn his head to investigate. He must be pretty far gone.

John maneuvers to the side of the bed and cautiously spreads Sherlock’s cheeks. He’s open and relaxed, but with the amount of lube John’s been using, there’s not even a hint of irritation around his rim. Pleased with the outlook, John picks up the lube and generously douses the toy in his hand before reaching down and gently starting to press it inside.

Sherlock cries out so loudly that John stops mid-way through the insertion, his heart in his throat. “Sherlock, you alright?”

“Yesyesyes _ohmygod John,_ yes, don’t stop, please don’t stop, oh GOD, GOD!” Sherlock wriggles and lifts his hips, helplessly attempting to impale himself further on the toy.

“Jesus, Sherlock, you scared the crap out of me. This feels good?”

“FUCK! Yes! What the hell is that? Christ, never mind, just… put it… put it in, oh my GOD…”

John can’t help but giggle as he finishes seating the ribbed plug. 

It’s large. Well, not _large,_ certainly not by the standard of the other wares John had seen on the shelf of the shop (several of which had made his blood run cold), but the only plug Sherlock had ever had up until this point was quite small and modest. Sherlock had purchased it himself with the explicit intent of using it to keep John’s come inside him between rounds (as he’d explained to John in his infuriatingly nonchalant tone when they’d had their negotiation on the matter)-- not for stretch or stimulation.

This plug, however, was intended for both. It was ever so slightly wider than John’s (not insubstantial) natural girth, so it wouldn’t be stretching Sherlock to the point of discomfort, merely past the point that John could take him naturally. It was “textured for intimate pleasure” and a bit longer than Sherlock’s other plug, making the experience more intense overall.

Once it’s seated, John gives it a light press, and Sherlock moans, struggling to spread his legs further. “How does that feel, love?”

“Bloody HELL, John, you’re fucking brilliant, it’s fucking brilliant, it’s… nnnngh…” Sherlock rolls his hips, and John notes the way his muscles stutter as he processes the new sensations deep inside him. “FUCK, John, amazing… oh God, _amazing…”_

John actually laughs this time. For as out of it as Sherlock had seemed mere moments ago, he now appears completely lucid… and back in the game.

“Glad to hear you’re enjoying yourself, love. I’m going to give you a few minutes to get used to it while we get you untied, alright?”

“Nnngh.”

With that, John makes quick work of the ropes tied to Sherlock’s cuffs. Then he gives his shoulder a light tug, signaling for him to turn over, which Sherlock does-- but not without his eyes widening comically as the plug is pushed deeper inside him.

“Alright, sweetheart. Can you sit up for me?”

Sherlock struggles to prop himself up onto his forearms, then swings his legs off the bed and pulls himself upright, swaying only slightly.

“How does that feel inside you? Still good?”

Sherlock meets John’s eyes and nods. “Good, John.”

John grins down at him. “Good. Now, I know we’re having a good time, but it’s also been a bit too long since you’ve eaten or had anything to drink.” Sherlock makes to pull a face, but John simply glares daggers back down at him. “No, none of that, you need a bit of feeding up before we can continue.” He plucks one of the lengths of rope off the bed and turns to make his way towards the kitchen. “Come with me, love. Crawl.”

Crawling is still pretty new to them, and John’s had a mixed reaction to it. Sometimes it makes him feel immeasurably powerful, while other times it strikes him as just a little _too_ odd, leaving him feeling unsettled. Sherlock, for his part, has declared he enjoys it every time, so tonight John’s decided to indulge him.

Sherlock’s barely made it four feet before he lets out a pornographic moan and stills. John cocks his head and peers down at him.

“You alright down there?”

“Nnngh, yes, John, it’s just…” He blinks a few times, then shakes his head. “It’s a lot. But I’m fine, I’m just… nnngh.” He resumes crawling towards the kitchen with a determined look on his face.

“Alright. Now, remember, you can come anytime you want. You have my explicit permission tonight, yeah?”

Sherlock nods resolutely as he passes in front of John and makes his way into the kitchen. “Yes, John.”

John admires the view as he follows him. He can’t see the plug where it’s seated, but there’s a certain hitch in Sherlock’s stride that’s unmistakable. John’s cock twitches with interest.

“Alright, now.” John enters the kitchen and pulls out one of the chairs at the table. “Stand up, love.” 

Sherlock clambers gracelessly to his feet, a fleeting look of awe on his face as the plug shifts. He stares back at John through glassy eyes.

“Let’s see, here. Let’s get these ridiculous things off of you, shall we?” John reaches out and plucks off his ear cuff, eyebrow ring, nose ring, and lip ring. He’s secretly rather relieved that they’re all fake; a tiny part of him knew Sherlock had a tendency to commit himself fully to his roles, and he’d had a niggling worry he might have taken it as far as getting an actual piercing. Luckily, John’s concerns were unfounded, and he grins up at Sherlock before placing them on the table.

“Alright, sit down right here, love, that’s it. Just like that. Put your hands down by your sides. Going to tie you up nice and pretty, now, just hold still.” John takes the jute rope he’d brought from the bedroom and gracefully uses it to affix Sherlock’s wrists to the chair legs. He leaves the rope fairly loose; he doesn’t expect Sherlock to struggle much during this particular portion.

“Lovely.” With that, John stands and gives his hands a quick wash before making his way to the cupboard, where he pulls out one of the protein bars he keeps on-hand for times like this, when they’re mid-session but he’s worried that Sherlock hasn’t eaten in so long his blood sugar might get low. He tosses the bar onto the table, then fills a glass with water, places a straw in it, and puts it on the table as well before pulling the other chair around so he’s seated directly in front of Sherlock.

“Alright, sweetheart, let’s get a little food in you, hmm?” Sherlock wrinkles his nose, and John sighs. “I know, you hate this bit. How about I give you a little incentive, hmm?” Sherlock blinks hopefully back at him before giving a small nod. “Alright. Spread your legs for me.” Sherlock looks completely perplexed, but he obeys. John leans forward, and pulls him into a passionate kiss.

For a while, that’s all he does; he simply kisses Sherlock with single-minded devotion. But once Sherlock has all but melted against his lips, John reaches between his legs--below where his balls hang, past his perineum, until he can feel the hard base of the plug. Sherlock utters a little cry of surprise, but John remains undeterred. He fingers the base until he finds his mark, then presses it. The toy springs to life with a resounding buzz.

Sherlock bucks so wildly he nearly headbutts John, who reels back in surprise.

“GAH! FUCK! JOHN! OH! OH!” Sherlock’s eyes are wide and wild, and he’s staring at John with abject desperation.

“Eeeeeasy there love, easy-- you alright?”

“Nnnngh! Nnnngh! Nnnngh!” Sherlock slams his eyes shut and grips the legs of his chair before shaking his head back and forth.

“Is that a no? Sherlock, if you want to stop, say stop, or give me two snaps, _please.”_

“GAH! Don’t… don’t stop, don’t stop, just give me… let me… Ohhhhh….” He lets out a full-body shudder, and John notices that his cock is already beginning to harden.

“It’s alright, sweetheart, just breathe. Just relax, okay?”

“Nnnnnnngh, _Jooooohn….”_ Sherlock pries his eyes open and blinks helplessly back at him.

“Is it good, love?”

“Nnngh. Nnngh. Good. So… so good.” He twitches and spreads his legs wider, the resounding buzz from between them filling the kitchen with its pornographic tone.

“Alright. Here, have some water, love.” He picks up the glass and holds the straw to Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock takes a shaky sip, then closes his eyes and swallows five deep mouthfuls.

“Beautiful, sweetheart. That’s it, doing so well for me.” John deposits the glass back on the table before opening the protein bar and breaking off a bite-sized piece. “Open up. There we go. Chew ten times, please.” Sherlock complies, breathing heavily through his nose as the vibrations reverberate through his body. “Gorgeous, love. Have another bite, now…”

John repeats the process, alternating between bites of bar and sips of water, until the whole of both are nearly gone. He’s just about to place the last bite of bar on Sherlock’s awaiting tongue when suddenly Sherlock pulls away, tips his head back, and nearly arches off the chair as he comes all over himself with a helpless wail.

“Christ!” John had been too distracted feeding him to notice how hard Sherlock had gotten, but he sits back just in time to observe as Sherlock’s cock pulses out thick streaks of come across his own abdomen. Sherlock shakes and moans through the duration of it, and by the time he’s slumping bonelessly back into his seat, John is all but drunk with lust from merely watching the spectacle before him.  
“Christ, Sherlock, that was gorgeous. You alright?”

Sherlock nods blearily, his head lolling helplessly to the side. 

“Alright. I think you’ve had enough to eat. Let’s get you untied, now.” He crouches and unties Sherlock’s hands, pausing to squeeze each in turn and receive a squeeze back (their unspoken signal that blood flow is normal and Sherlock is ready to continue). “Beautiful. Hands and knees, love, back to the bedroom with you.” Sherlock drops readily to the floor and begins to make his way towards the bedroom, John following admiringly behind him.

The bedroom reeks of sex. It lights up John’s lizard-brain in a million devious ways, and he notes with satisfaction he’s nearly fully-hard again himself.

“Get back up on the bed, now, love, face-up. Beautiful.” John reaches down and ties each of Sherlock’s cuffs back to their respective bedposts in turn, but he leaves his legs free for the time being. “Now, I want you to just relax, sweetheart. Let yourself have a good time, yeah? I’m just going to watch. I won’t touch you, but I want to watch you. Understood?”

Sherlock gives him a bleary nod, and John rises and makes his way to the chair in the corner by the wardrobe. He sits down, and waits.

It’s a beautiful tableau. After only a few minutes, the vibrations begin to get the better of Sherlock again, and his cock gives a few sporadic twitches. John recalls the time he once tested the number of times he could make Sherlock come with a vibrator in the span of an hour, and it had been criminally obscene. They won’t be breaking any records tonight, but just witnessing Sherlock’s display of wanton insatiability is enough to light John’s brain up like a switchboard.

More time passes. Sherlock’s cock continues to harden, and before too long, he spreads his legs, digging his heels into the mattress and undulating his pelvis, seeking increased stimulation from the vibrator within. Frantic whimpers escape from his plush cupid’s-bow lips, and his entire body is covered in a gorgeous sheen of sweat. He’s sex personified.

John watches silently from the corner. He knows what he wants to happen next, but he’s agonisingly aware that he needs to be in the right headspace: calm, collected, and under control. He’ll need to read the situation perfectly, lest he risk hurting Sherlock or ruining this for them both. He’ll be in uncharted waters.

“Gah!” Sherlock’s feet flex and his toes curl and his cock rises resolutely to full-mast once more. 

He’s close.

He’s ready.

John rises and approaches the bed, then reaches between Sherlock’s legs and removes the plug. Sherlock gives a rather indignant grunt and scowls up at John, who simply switches the toy off and places it on the nightstand.

“Alright, gorgeous. Here’s what’s going to happen next: We’re going to try something new tonight, alright? We’ve experimented with it before, but never in a session, and never to quite this degree, so I’m going to need you to _communicate_ with me, yeah?”

Sherlock is suddenly solemn, his eyes clear and bright. “Yes, John.”

“Alright. I’ll be asking for your verbal consent multiple times, and I will _not_ react kindly to any sass about this matter. Understood?”

“Yes, John.”

“Okay, then. Let’s get you ready.” With that, he unties Sherlock’s cuffs from the bedposts. “Can you sit up, love?” Sherlock does, wincing slightly-- John knows he’s probably stretched further than he’s used to by this point, and he runs a reassuring hand up and down his back. “Alright. Hands and knees for me, facing the foot of the bed.” Sherlock complies immediately. “Beautiful. Going to get you nice and tied up again now, sweetheart, just hold still…” He takes the lengths of rope tied to the footboard and attaches them one by one to the cuffs at Sherlock’s wrists, extending his arms towards the bedposts once more. Sherlock looks predictably perplexed; John doesn’t usually put him facing the foot of the bed, and the change-up is making him anxious. 

Finally, he’s secure: still kneeling, but his arms are stretched out and immobilized in either direction. John steps back and admires his handiwork.

“Gorgeous. Stay right there now, sweetheart.” He makes his way to the corner where they keep the full-length mirror, and unceremoniously picks it up and moves it to the wall facing the bed, giving Sherlock an unobstructed view of himself.

Sherlock blushes beet red, closes his eyes, and moans.

“Mmm, yes, love, you’re going to watch yourself while I fuck you, how does that sound? See how wanton and debauched you look while I’m having my way with you, making you mine? Watch as I reclaim you, ruin you, fuck you so hard you can’t walk for days, fill you up until you’re leaking and messy and begging for more?”

_“Oh, God yes…”_

Sherlock’s eyes fly open and they meet John’s through the reflection in the mirror. John had had an inkling that this would appeal to Sherlock’s exhibitionist streak, and he’s frankly a bit embarrassed it had never occurred to either of them to move the mirror until now. If this worked as well as he’s nearly certain it’s going to, he’s planning to suggest they keep it there on a permanent basis.

But now was hardly the time to dwell on matters of interior decor. WIthout further ado, John goes about the business of stripping down himself; while he knows Sherlock delights in the power imbalance of being naked while John is still fully-clothed, for tonight, he wants their encounter to feel more intimate.

Clothes discarded, he climbs onto the bed behind Sherlock, bringing the lube with him. He coates his fingers and slips them back inside Sherlock once more.

He’s relaxed and open, John notes with delight, more so than he’s ever felt him. The combination of the new toy combined with his multiple orgasms seems to have done the trick, and John gives a satisfied smirk as he twists his fingers and then withdraws them. He looks up to see Sherlock is watching him through the mirror, a look of rapt attention on his face.

“Lovely, sweetheart, nice and open for me, hmm?”

“Yes, John.”

“Would you like my cock now?” He leans forward to nudge the head of his member against Sherlock’s hole, and Sherlock shivers and gasps.

“Yes, please, John.”

“And do you want my come? Want me to mark you up, claim you, make you mine?”

Sherlock strains against the bindings holding his arms in place and gives a vehement nod. “Yes, _please,_ John.”

John gives a withering sigh, radiating feigned exasperation. “We’ll see. You’ll have to be very, _very_ good to make up for your performance earlier tonight.”

“Please, John. Please. I’ll be good.”

John purses his lips. “Who does your arse belong to, sweetheart?”

“You, John, only you.” The words tumble from Sherlock’s lips like a benediction.

“That’s right. Who’s the only man who’s ever put his come inside you?”

Sherlock rolls his body and cranes his neck, willing John to impale him. “You John.”

“That’s right. Who took your virginity?”

“Nnngh, John! You! Only you! Please, God, please, take me, claim me, fuck me, give me your come, I’m begging you, please, please, I’ll be good, I promise, I promise, please…”

When John catches Sherlock’s gaze in the mirror once more, he’s unsurprised to find his eyes brimming with tears. He’s nearing his breaking point, John’s well aware, but he has to be sure Sherlock is willing to give him _everything._

“You’ll take whatever I give you?”

Sherlock nods frantically. “Yes. Anything. God, John, please…”

And with that, John gives him a curt nod before turning and retrieving the last of his ammunition from the nightstand.

He turns back to Sherlock’s form quickly, and he’s fairly certain Sherlock hadn’t had the time (or the presence of mind) to see what he has in his hand. He slicks it up, and gently inserts it into Sherlock’s quivering hole.

Sherlock goes very, very still. John watches in the mirror as his expression goes blank and pensive; he’s clearly trying to quantify the sensation in the his arse, but coming up rather empty-handed.

John smirks, and flips the switch on.

Sherlock jerks and gives an aborted shout before moaning and sinking into the sensation.

The vibrator John has inside him is long but slim; slimmer by far than the one they usually use. The crooked tip is intended for prostate stimulation, but John doesn’t concern himself with precision at this point; he simply watches as Sherlock relaxes into the vibrations, his eyes rolling back in ecstasy.

“How does that feel, sweetheart?”

“Oh, John. Good. It feels good.”

John grins down at him. “Good. You like it?” He moves the thin rod in and out a few times before swirling it, allowing Sherlock to acclimate to the sensation.

“Nnngh. Yes. Yes, very much so.”

“Good. Now be very still, sweetheart. This is going to be intense.” And with that, John relinquishes his hold from the end of the vibrator, leaving it seated inside Sherlock’s arse, then grips his cock and guides the head of it inside Sherlock alongside the device.

“AAAUGH!” Sherlock’s scream echoes through the bedroom, and John immediately pauses, feeling as though his heart is about to beat out of his chest. He grabs the lube and dabs a bit more onto his fingers, and begins to massage Sherlock’s stretched rim. Sherlock moans wantonly, and John looks desperately to the mirror to find Sherlock’s expression is contorted, tears spilling from the corners of his eyes.

“You with me, love?”

“Nnngh. Nnngh. Nnngh.” Sherlock is issuing pained little whimpers, his eyes screwed shut. He’s straining helplessly against his bindings, and for the first time in as long as he can remember, John worries he might be pushing him too far.

“Alright, love. We can slow it down. Here, I’ll pull out, and--”

“No.” Sherlock’s tone is curt and sharp, and his eyes snap open to meet John’s. “No, keep going. Push. Push… me. Please.”

John takes a deep breath and steadies himself. “All… alright. Easy now, love, deep breath. Just relax. Take me deeper now.” He holds Sherlock’s gaze resolutely in the mirror, and Sherlock gives him a tiny nod. John presses his hips forward, forcing his cock deeper inside.

And then Sherlock is wailing and thrashing and crying out, but it’s all almost secondary to the sensation John is awash in.

Because sure, he’s used a vibrator on Sherlock before. And hell, he’s even tried it on himself a few times. But he’s never fucked Sherlock _and_ experienced vibration before, and the sensation is so transcendent he feels light-headed with desire. He grunts and adjusts his angle, the ministrations of the vibrator’s reverberation working their way up his turgid cock to his balls and then to somewhere deep and inaccessible inside him. It’s fucking _incredible._

He utters a gutteral shout.

In front of him, Sherlock sobs helplessly, his face sweat-soaked and streaked with mascara as he gazes up desperately at John through the mirror. John hazards a glance downward, and the sight of Sherlock’s rim stretched so obscenely makes his stomach do an odd sort of somersault.

“Christ, Sherlock. Are you… are you alright?”

He manages to tear his gaze away from Sherlock’s hole to meet his eyes in the mirror. Sherlock blinks at him through the tears and gives a watery nod.

“Alright, love. Gonna… gonna keep going now. Hold still. Shhh, that’s it. Let me have you. Let me have you.” He places one hand on Sherlock’s lower back, and the other he threads through the collar still clasped as his throat. Then he takes a deep breath, and drives all the way inside.

The next few seconds are a bit of a blur. He vaguely registers Sherlock swearing, flailing, struggling beneath him, but he’s also completely consumed by the sensation of being enveloped in Sherlock’s tight heat as the vibrator works its magic beside his rigid length. John lets out a series of hoarse, ragged shouts before pulling back on Sherlock’s collar, snapping him into place and stilling him entirely.

Everything goes quiet.

Finally, John is able to open his eyes. He stares into the mirror at Sherlock’s reflection. Sherlock is shaking and dripping with sweat, his arms straining against his bindings, his face streaked with tears.

“Yes or no, love? Will you let me claim you like this?”

There’s an agonising pause that stretches on for infinity.

Then Sherlock nods.

“Yes, John. Yes.”

John issues a triumphant roar as he grabs Sherlock by the hips and begins to thrust with abandon.

He should be careful, he knows this, and he makes sure to hazard a glance or two down at where he’s disappearing into Sherlock’s abused hole, but everything seems to be in order; the area is slick with lube, and there’s no evidence of tearing. Satisfied, John allows himself to finally relax and chase his pleasure.

It’s by far the most vigorous and brutal fuck he’s ever delivered to Sherlock, but Sherlock takes everything he gives him and more. He screams, moans, swears and strains, but never once does he ask John to pause or stop. John stares in rapt fascination at Sherlock’s face as he debases him, the combination of pleasure and pain interplaying so beautifully across his ethereal features that John can scarcely breathe with the perfection of it.

All too soon, he feels the familiar tension deep in his gut. He grips Sherlock’s hips more firmly and delivers a series of punishing thrusts, Sherlock spreading his legs and arching his back in response.

“Oh, Christ, sweetheart. Gonna… gonna come. Gonna… gonna come inside you. Gonna claim you. Make you mine. Want to--”

Before he can continue, Sherlock’s back jerks ramrod straight, and he throws back his head and howls.

Christ, Sherlock was _coming._

_“Oh my God! Oh my God, Sherlock! Oh Christ, oh sweetheart!”_

John focuses single-mindedly on maintaining his pace, prolonging Sherlocks’ pleasure as long as he can. 

In all honesty, John hadn’t expected Sherlock to come during this portion of the session. He knew that it would be incredibly intense for him, so he’d reasoned that after he finished, he’d treat Sherlock to some light prostate stimulation coupled with a decadent blow job, and they’d be even.

But somehow, impossibly, Sherlock is _coming,_ despite the fact he’s currently taking both John AND the vibrator simultaneously, stretched further than John frankly thought could be even remotely enjoyable, and he’s _coming_ from it.

The notion is so erotic that John feels he may black out.

But the temptation is short-lived. Moments later, Sherlock goes limp against his bindings, moaning and whimpering in apparent supplication. His muscles go lax, and John feels himself sink impossibly deeper into his prone form.

“Oh fuck. Oh, sweetheart, that was amazing. You’re perfect, incredible, so good for me, so good, gonna...oh, hold still now, gonna claim you. Gonna come in you, make you mine, only mine--”

“Only yours.” Sherlock’s low baritone sounds deep and broken, but he’s managed to raise his head just enough to meet John’s eyes in the mirror.

“FUCK! OH! Mine! Mine! Mine! Your arse is-- mine! You’re mine! FUCK, sweetheart, mine! Mine!”

“Yours, John! Yours, yours, yours--”

“Mine, mine, mine, oh, oh, oh fuck, MINE--”

And then the world is exploding and imploding and turning upside down and inside out, and the vibrations are echoing from John’s cock to his brain to the tips of his toes, and he’s coming in hot, urgent waves, flooding Sherlock’s slick channel over and over again with deep, satisfying pulses. Every time he thinks he surely must be done, another wave hits him, and he’s gripping Sherlock’s hips and screaming through gritted teeth as he pumps impossibly more into him. Something about the vibrator prolongs his orgasm to a frankly obscene extent-- he has no idea how long he coasts on the waves of pleasure crashing over him, but it seems to last forever.

When the pulses of ecstasy finally recede, John quickly finds himself uncomfortably overstimulated; the sensation of the inflexible vibrator against his softening cock is less than pleasant, and he winces as he relinquishes his grip on Sherlock’s hips to hastily pull himself out. Then he quickly grabs the base of the vibrator and withdraws it, too, before flicking it off and tossing it aside.

The room is eerily quiet.

Then John hears a sound. Sherlock is snapping his fingers. Twice.

It’s the first time Sherlock’s ever actually signalled a stop during a session. For a moment, John freezes, the implication of the sound roaring the the forefront of his consciousness. Horrifyingly, he nearly panics.

But no, _no,_ everything would be fine. He simply needs to stay in control and take care of Sherlock now.

“Okay, sweetheart, shhh, just hold still. I’ve got you. Let’s get you untied, hmm?” John’s fingers are steady as he unties the jute rope from the cuffs, then quickly unbuckles the cuffs and removes them altogether. Sherlock slumps forward onto his forearms, head dropping to the mattress as John does a quick once-over of his wrists; they’re lightly bruised and a little chafed, but nothing for concern.

“Sherlock, love, are you with me?” He runs one hand up and down Sherlock’s spine as he leans over to thread the other through Sherlock’s matted curls, attempting to push them away from his face, to try and see his expression. Sherlock shudders and moans, burying his face in the sheets. “Sweetheart, are you hurt? Talk to me, please…”

Finally, Sherlock turns his head to meet John’s eyes. “No, not hurt, just… done. John, please, I’m done, I’m all done now…”

“Okay, okay, shhhh, yes, you’re all done, we’re finished, and you were so _good,_ sweetheart, so good. You were so good for me. Come on now, lie back, just relax…” He gently pulls Sherlock towards him, and Sherlock rises slowly to his knees. His movements are slow and uncoordinated, and John moves to the side of the bed to help maneuver Sherlock until he’s lying down on his back, chest heaving, quivering and disorientated. His eyes are glassy and unseeing, and he looks more out of it than John’s seen him in a long, long time.

“There we go, love, that’s perfect. You’re so perfect, brilliant, amazing…” John perches himself on the edge of the bed and begins to card his fingers through Sherlock’s hair reassuringly. To his relief, Sherlock closes his eyes and leans into the touch.

After a few minutes, Sherlock’s breathing has evened out, and the sweat-slick sheen is beginning to cool on his fevered skin. John leans over and places a soft kiss on his forehead. “Love, do you want me to leave you for a bit?” He knows sometimes following a session, Sherlock likes to be left alone, filthy and debauched, to wallow for a while. That particular proclivity has always struck John as a bit strange, but he’s learned to accept it.

Tonight, however, Sherlock’s eyes fly open, and suddenly he’s gripping John’s wrist with a strength completely at odds with his current state. “No. Please, stay. Stay with me. I’m…. please.”

“Of _course,_ sweetheart, of course I’ll stay with you! Whatever you want, love, anything at all.”

Sherlock blinks up at him and smiles wetly. “Stay.”

John grins. “Alright.”

He rises slowly and moves to the foot of the bed, where he goes about removing the cuffs from around Sherlock’s ankles. He rubs the tender skin beneath them, checking the blood flow, before moving on with a satisfied hum.

He unbuckles the collar around Sherlock’s throat and gently pulls it away to place on the nightstand. Sherlock gives a forlorn whimper, his eyes blinking open as he watches, concern creasing his brow.

“Shhh, love, it’s alright. I’ve got something better for you, now. How about this, hmmm?” John picks up his dog tags from where he’d left them on the nightstand, and Sherlock breaks into a thousand-watt smile.

“Yes, please, John.”

John beams down at him. “Alright, love. Here we go… much better, hmm?” He places the chain reverently around Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock closes his eyes in bliss as the tags come to rest on his sternum.

“Thank you, John. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.” John reclines on the bed next to Sherlock before pulling his lax body into his arms and peppering his hair with kisses. “You were so good for me, love. I’m so proud of you.”

Sherlock lets out a contented cooing noise and snuggles up against John’s chest. John wraps his arms around him, and suddenly John feels like he can breathe again.

John lets them stay like that for a long time. He doesn’t let himself fall asleep; he knows it would be irresponsible to be unresponsive should Sherlock need him. But he does let himself sink deeply into his headspace; solemn, vigilant, and protective.

Eventually, Sherlock begins to stir. He doesn’t move to get up, but he starts to stretch and shift and snuff hotly into the crook of John’s neck. John takes the hint.

“Alright, love. Will you get on your back now, for me?” Sherlock rolls onto his back and blinks up at John. He still looks dazed, but his pupils are tracking, so it’s a step up from where he’d been a short while ago.

“Sweetheart, I think we should go have a shower together, but I need to check you over first, alright?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No, thank you. I’m alright.”

John shifts into a sitting position and shakes his head. “Love, that’s not for you to decide. I know this part is unpleasant, but we agreed that if we’re going to do rough stuff, this has to be a part of it. You promised. For me.”

Sherlock bites his lower lip and looks away.. He doesn’t spread his legs.

John hardens his gaze. “Sherlock. I’m going to be as gentle with you as possible, you know that. But if you refuse to let me do this, we aren’t going to be able to have rough sex again. This is part of what we negotiated. If you back out on your end, it’s a non-starter.”

Sherlock lets out an indignant huff and twists his head further to the side away from John. For one frantic moment, John honestly thinks he’s going to refuse to be checked over. But then slowly, he parts his legs.

“Okay, sweetheart. Thank you.” John crawls over to kneel between Sherlock’s spread legs. “Can you open up a little wider for me, love? There we go. Nice and easy, now.” John reaches down to place his hand on the back of Sherlock’s thigh, pulling him further open and tipping his pelvis up so he can see the affected area.

Sherlock’s hole is open and wet, and John can see a distinct trail of come leaking from it. He feels a residual throb of arousal, but he tamps it down; this part isn’t about his enjoyment tonight, it’s about making sure Sherlock is healthy and safe.

“Going to touch you now, Sherlock. Is that alright?”

Sherlock sniffles but then gives a quiet, “Mmm-hmm.” It’s not exactly a yes, but John’s not about to split hairs, here. He’ll take what he can get.

Cautiously, he takes his finger and runs it gently around Sherlock’s rim. Sherlock hisses through his teeth and his legs tense and flex, but he doesn’t fight. 

John winces in sympathy. His rim is red and irritated, but he runs his finger over the circumference and notes with satisfaction that there is no blood-- just semen and a rather obscene amount of lube.

“Alright, love, everything’s fine out here. I need to check inside, now, alright?”

Sherlock shivers. He’s still refusing to meet John’s eyes.

“Sherlock? I’m asking for your consent here. Will you please let me check you out inside? We need to make sure there wasn’t any tearing.” John’s trying to remain patient, but Sherlock’s behaviour is making him feel slightly panicky; was something actually wrong, and Sherlock was trying to hide it? The thought makes his stomach clench.

After a seeming eternity, Sherlock gives a curt nod. “Fine.”

“Thank you.” John licks two fingers (probably unnecessary given the amount of lube leaking from Sherlock, but hell, he might as well do whatever he can), then reaches down and gently guides them inside.

“Nnnnnnnnnngh!” Sherlock arches his back and clenches down around John’s fingers. John begins to run his hand up and down Sherlock’s thigh in an attempt to calm him.

“Hush, sweetheart, just hang on, we’re almost done.” He scissors his fingers lightly and swirls them around, making sure to touch every part of Sherlock’s channel. Then he moves them in and out a few times, checking for any indication of blood. Mercifully, there’s none.

He pulls his fingers out hastily, and Sherlock utters an obscene moan, his muscles going lax as he finally relaxes. “Okay, sweetheart, we’re all finished. You’re fine, everything looks normal. You’re alright.”

Sherlock finally deigns to meet John’s eyes, and his eyes are slightly accusatory. “Hurts.”

“I know, love, but that’s to be expected. I pushed you hard tonight. There’s going to be a bit of pain. But now I get to make it up to you, yeah? How about we have a shower?”

Sherlock pauses, seeming to consider the proposition. Finally, he acquiesces. “Alright.”

“Good. Come on, now.”

It’s not an easy task, getting him to the bathroom. As John suspected, Sherlock is more out of it than he’s seen him before, even after his birthday session all those months ago. It takes him twice as long as usual to corral him into the bathroom and get him into the tub, and even then, Sherlock doesn’t stay standing long enough for John to even properly clean him; he simply plops down in the basin and curls into a ball with his head between his knees, leaving John to attempt to figure out the best way to clean all the come off of him with his long arms and bony knees at all sorts of odd angles. He does the best he can, but resigns himself to the fact that some residual clean-up will probably be required in the morning.

He does manage to cajole Sherlock into lifting his head long enough for John to wipe most of the make-up off his face. He’s fairly certain there must be a trick to removing black eyeliner, but he hasn’t the faintest, so he simply does the best he can and decides there’s no real harm in Sherlock spending one night looking like the lead singer of an emo band. He forgoes the hair washing altogether and instead just spends a few minutes running his hands through Sherlock’s curls while Sherlock makes happy little humming sounds, which John figures will have to be good enough. Then he flips off the taps, towels them off, and guides Sherlock back to the bedroom.

He’d honestly not been expecting Sherlock to be quite so clingy tonight, and he’d been planning on maybe running a bath for him to relax in while John changed the sheets and got the room cleaned up. Alas, the best-laid plans were wont to go awry, so he wraps Sherlock in a blanket and plops him in the chair in the corner where he leans heavily against the wall as John makes quick work of the bedclothes and packs away the rope and cuffs, then sets the toys aside to be cleaned in the morning. 

Then he takes Sherlock by the hand and gently, lovingly guides him to the bed. Sherlock reclines gracefully, his coordination apparently back online, and he snuggles down into the pillows with a look of contentment on his face.

“Love, I need to go to the kitchen to get you some more water. Will you be alright for a few minutes?”

Sherlock closes his eyes. “Yes, John.”

“Okay. I’ll be right back. Shout if you need me.” 

He scampers to the kitchen to refill the water glass as quickly as possible, and within moments, he’s back at Sherlock’s side, guiding the straw to his lips. Sherlock takes a few grateful gulps and then turns his head away. “Enough.”

“Alright, love.” John places the glass on the nightstand and climbs in next to Sherlock, flicking off the light as he does so. Then he pulls Sherlock close, and Sherlock bonelessly melts against him.

“How are you feeling, love?”

“Tired, John.”

“Okay. Sleep, now. Sweetheart. You were so good. You were so good…”

Sherlock’s breath goes deep and steady. John follows not far behind.

\---------------------------

John wakes late. He shouldn’t be surprised; it was nearly dawn by the time they’d finally gone to sleep, and his muscles ache with the rigors of last night’s activities. He stretches and rolls to check on Sherlock. He’s still asleep, as expected, although John doesn’t quite know what to anticipate for Sherlock’s schedule today; usually after a case he’d have his 14-Hour-Sleep-Of-The-Dead, but the case he’d just worked hadn’t actually lasted very long, so he presumably wouldn’t be as sleep-starved as normal.

John pulls himself from bed and resigns himself to taking on the unpleasant (if mildly amusing) task of cleaning up from last night’s session. He puts the kettle on, and gets to work.

It’s an epic undertaking. Aside from the usual lube-and-toy mess, there were Sherlock’s accessories to pack up and put away, Sherlock’s clothes were still piled where he’d stripped them off in the sitting room (the nipple clamps sitting innocently a few feet away), and the end table was not only knocked over, but the the leg had split from top to bottom, so John adds ‘wood glue’ to the shopping list and rights it as best he can. He tosses the come-soaked sheets into the laundry and gives the kitchen chair and floor a wipedown (how Sherlock had managed to come on both of them, he has no idea). By the time he’s finished, nearly two hours have passed, and his stomach is growling mutinously.

He grins to himself, grabs his jacket, and pops out the door.

By the time he returns, bag in hand, he’s surprised to find a showered, dressed, and frankly spritely-looking detective standing over his laptop at the desk in the sitting room.

“Excellent, John, you’re back. Did you just get up?”

John furrows his brow. “Um, no, I was up for two hours cleaning the flat and then I went and got us breakfast.”

Sherlock looks flummoxed. “You cleaned the flat?”

John pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yes, Sherlock. Didn’t you notice that there isn’t lube and sex toys and come strewn about the place like the depraved sex den it was when we went to bed last night?”

Sherlock cocks his head. “You clean all that up? Every time?”

“How did you _think_ it got cleaned up, Sherlock?”

He looks pensive for a moment, then gives an absent shrug. “I don’t know, I just thought it sort of _happened.”_

“Noted. Hate to burst your bubble, but there aren’t some sort of magical sex-mess-cleaning fairies that pop in through the fireplace and make quick work of it. Just me and some good old-fashioned elbow grease.”

“Elbow grease? I’d’ve thought that was part of the mess to begin with…”

John rolls his eyes and makes his way to the kitchen to refill the kettle, and is pleased to note Sherlock seems to have beaten him to it. He pours them two strong cuppas, then opens up the bag and spreads the contents out across the kitchen table. “You hungry? I’ve brought--”

“Bagels!” Sherlock’s in the kitchen in an instant.

John hadn’t really eaten bagels much in the past, but a few weeks back, Aaron had brought them some as a peace offering, and since then, Sherlock had been _obsessed._ He’d been fastidiously researching the best offerings close to the flat, and this morning John had procured some from his new favourite establishment.

He descends upon the cinnamon-raisin one with gusto (John had been unsurprised that Sherlock’s sweet tooth extended even to traditionally savoury breakfast offerings), and a few minutes later, the bagels are toasted and loaded with cream cheese, and John pulls out a chair and plops contentedly into it and tucks in.

“You planning to join me?” He gestures at the spare chair and peers up at Sherlock, who’s hovering awkwardly by the counter as he sinks his teeth into the schmear-coated bread.

Sherlock mutters something unintelligible around his bite of food.

“Sorry, what was that?”

Sherlock swallows and glares at him. “I said, I’d rather not.”

John’s perplexed. “Any particular reason you don’t want to sit down and share a cuppa like a civilised couple?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Well, if you must know, the results of our rather _uncivilised_ activities last night have made sitting entirely unpleasant. So if you don’t mind, I’ll be standing.”

John quirks a smile sympathetic smile at him, and gets to his feet. “Alright, then. I’ll join you.”

They finish their meal leaning companionably against the kitchen counter.

John waits a few days before asking for a Talk. Usually he likes to have a post-mortem as soon as possible following a particularly intense session, but Sherlock is busy dealing with the clerical work involved in wrapping up the case, and physically, John notes he doesn’t start sitting without a wince until nearly 72 hours afterwards. Sherlock doesn’t mention it and he doesn’t complain, but John can tell he’s hurting, and a part of him cringes every time he witnesses Sherlock’s reluctant expression as he eyes the seat of a chair.

But finally, the case is closed, their daily routines resume, and when John arrives home from the surgery one evening (Rosie in tow) to find Sherlock seated comfortably at his microscope, he knows it’s time.

They eat dinner together, then John puts Rosie down, and by the time he returns to the sitting room, he finds Sherlock’s lit a fire and settled into his chair, a look of rapt attention on his face.

John pauses in the doorway. “What’s this?”

Sherlock eyes him. “You want a Talk. A post-mortem, a negotiation, whatever you want to call it. You want to discuss our session the other night. So I’ve made tea.”

A warm glow resonates from deep within John’s chest, and he gives Sherlock a smile. “You’re brilliant, you know.” Sherlock grins back at him, a smug expression of nonchalance on his face, but John can see his cheeks pinken in the firelight.

John settles into his chair and picks up his tea. “So.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “So.”

“Um… how was… how was… everything... For you?” Christ, John _hates_ the start of these talks, it’s _so damn awkward,_ but everyone on the websites and message boards he frequents is _constantly_ emphasising how important they are. John attempts to shove down the wave of mortification attempting to envelop him.

Sherlock tips his head appraisingly to the side. “Overall? Raving success.”

“Right. Good. Um, that’s… that’s good. But we should… we should probably assess some of the finer points, yeah?”

Sherlock shrugs. “If you like.”

John takes a deep breath. “Alright. There’s… um, there’s a lot to unpack here. We did… uh, a lot. So… so one step at a time?”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows appraisingly and takes a sip of tea.

“Right, right, okay. Um… how did you feel about the, uh… the encounter with Hassan? And me… uh, watching?”

Sherlock places cup back in its saucer, then stares pensively into the fire for a moment. Eventually, he speaks. “It was extremely pleasurable for me. Not during the act, obviously, as I was in case mode at the time, and feigning my interest. But afterwards, coming home to you, I found it extremely arousing…”

He trails off.

John leans forward. “But?”

“But it’s not replicable, is it? Those circumstances were entirely unique. The things I was doing, it was all for a case, and that made it excusable to me, part of a game. But outside of that context, John, I could never, I would never…” His eyes flick back to meet John’s. “I could never be with someone else like that. Just you. Only you.”

A feeling of calm washes over John, a reassurance he didn’t know he’d been lacking. “Okay. Okay, that’s fine, Sherlock. I…. I mean, watching you like that, it was hot as hell, don’t get me wrong. But you’re right, it’s not like we could replicate those circumstances ourselves. And I stand by what I said before, after what happened with Aaron: we can’t bring oblivious people into this thing we have between us. They didn’t consent to it, and it wouldn’t be right.”

“So this was a one-off, then?”

John nods. “Yes. I think so. If that’s alright with you.”

Sherlock looks slightly anxious. “It is. But could we still… um…” He swallows deeply, and his eyes dart away to fix on something in the kitchen. “Could we still… talk about it, maybe? Like, um, dirty talk, while we’re… doing things?”

John nods slowly. “I think so...”

Sherlock hastens to clarify. “We could...um, I could say I’ve been thinking about things… bad things, and you could punish me?”

John’s cheeks feel suddenly very, very warm. “Yes. Yes, I think I’d like that very much.”

Sherlock grins. “Good.”

“Good.” John adjusts himself slightly in his trousers. “So, um, next, I feel like we should probably talk about the… um, the accessories. The clamps and the cuffs and the collar. That was all new, and it wasn’t something we’d negotiated. I understand it was part of the act, but we incorporated it into our session, and I realised we should probably discuss it.”

Sherlock uncrosses and re-crosses his legs, and takes another sip of tea. “Can I be frank?”

“Of course.”

“While I enjoyed it at the time, I don’t think I’d like to make a habit of using any of that.”

John’s slightly taken aback. Sherlock adored bondage, and he’d always seemed to enjoy it when John came up with clever ways to torture his nipples. The fact that he was turned off by items intended to do just those very things was confusing, to say the least.

“May I ask why?”

Sherlock levels his gaze and meets John’s eyes. “Do you remember back in the beginning of all this, the thing with the… uh, the drill sergeant incident?”

John didn’t think it was possible to blush any harder, but somehow, it’s happening, this time more out of mortification than arousal. “Um, yeah, that was rather hard to forget.”

“Remember when we had a negotiation about it, and I said that I didn’t want our sessions to be play-acting? I want you to be you and me to be me?”

“I do.”

“The whole getup last night-- the leather, the cuffs, the clamps-- it felt like a costume to me. Before, every time you’ve tied me up, it’s been with your belts or my scarves or Lestrade’s handcuffs or sometimes that rope you have here in the flat. But it’s all _us,_ it’s _ours,_ it’s pieces from one part of our life re-purposed to enhance another. It’s not some fake persona we put on like characters in a play. It’s… it’s just _us.”_

Sherlock’s assessment of the situation is so poignant it takes John off-guard. He has to pause and swallow a bit wetly before he opens his mouth to reply. “Alright. I understand. That… that makes complete sense.”

Sherlock still looks a bit nervous. “If you really liked it, I could put them on for you and maybe you could take pictures or something--”

John shakes his head vehemently. “No, Sherlock, it’s alright. I liked those things because you looked gorgeous in them, but hell, you look gorgeous in just about everything. It doesn’t matter to me if we don’t use them again.”

Sherlock seems visibly relieved, and he sinks back into his chair. “Alright. Just… um, just for the record, this doesn’t apply to… to lingerie. That… that I still enjoy very much. Because it still feels like _me.”_

John gives him a coy smile. “Understood. Lingerie stays in play, then.” John’s rather relieved about that - he’s grown rather fond of Sherlock in his bustier and panties, and he’s glad that’s still on the table for future sessions.

“So, I think, um… I think that just leaves us with the… with the toys.” John clears his throat and shifts awkwardly in his chair, reverting his gaze to the fire. “Did you… did you like the new plug?”

“God, yes.” Sherlock answers so quickly John can’t help but giggle.

“Geez, are you sure you don’t need some time to mull it over?”

Sherlock giggles a bit himself. “Nope. 10/10, would do again. Whatever that thing is, it’s sorcery, and I’d like to revisit it again in the _very_ near future.”

John smirks. “Noted. And what about, um. The. The other. The other thing.”

The tone in the room changes, and John finds Sherlock’s face has gone serious. He takes a deep breath before speaking. “That was… that was something else.”

“A good something else?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I honestly don’t know yet, John. I’m still thinking about it.”

John bites his lip. What could there be to think about? “Can you… elaborate?”

Sherlock gives a reluctant nod. “The vibration was good. Vibrators are fine. We’ve established that.”

John gives him an encouraging nod.

“But the… the double penetration was… intense. It was so intense, John, there aren’t words to describe it, and thinking about it still makes me feel dizzy. Do you remember how I told you once that back before I met you, the idea of sex was overwhelming to me, but when I’m with you, I can just trust you to guide me through it?”

John leans forward solemnly. “I remember.”

“The double penetration was the first time I’ve ever felt overwhelmed while you were dominating me. It felt like too much, but it felt _so good,_ and I couldn’t figure out if I wanted it more than anything, or just wanted it to stop.”

John fights back against the tightness in his chest. When he speaks, it’s in a slow, deliberate tone as he struggles to keep his voice even. “Did… did you feel that way the time we tried it with just my cock and my finger?” They’d done that a few weeks back, after one of John’s rugby matches, and John had thought the results had been pleasure able for both of them. Had that not been the case?

Sherlock shakes his head. “No. With just your finger, it was fine. But your finger is shorter, and it’s doesn’t… well, it doesn’t vibrate, obviously, and your finger was slimmer than whatever you were using the other night. Between the depth and the vibration and the girth, it felt like… it felt like a big jump.”

“Christ, Sherlock, I’m so sorry. I thought since you’d enjoyed the finger thing so much, that you’d probably like this too, and I didn’t realise--”

“Stop.” Sherlock holds up his hand, his tone curt and brusk. “You did _everything_ right, John. You prepped me so much I nearly lost my damn mind. You took things slowly, and guided me through it step by step. You asked for my verbal and physical consent multiple times. And I gave it-- I consented to all of it, and my consent was valid, and I stand by it. You don’t get to blame yourself for any of this.”

John nods, but it still feels rather like his heart is trapped in a vice. He has no idea what to say.

Luckily, Sherlock soldiers on. “I clearly enjoyed it, to an extent. I got off on it. I came. That orgasm was incredible, by the way, completely unlike any I’ve had before-- I’ve had to make a whole new category in my Mind Palace for it-- and the way it made me feel in the moment was indescribably erotic.”

John swallows. He doesn’t trust himself to speak.

“But the aftermath was… difficult. Something about being that… that stretched, that open, that used, it felt strange and foreign and overwhelming. When you told me it was time to check me over, the thought made me want to be sick. The actual process when you were examining me wasn’t even that bad; the pain had receded a bit at that point, and I know you were as gentle as you could be. But it was difficult for me to endure, much more so than usual, and I know for you, checking me over after intercourse is an absolute requirement. So our needs seem to be a bit at odds, in this case.”

John takes a steadying breath. “Alright. We won’t do that again.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No. That’s not what I want.”

John furrows his brow. “But… you got overwhelmed. You were uncomfortable. You were in pain.”

“Yes, John, _and I also got off on the lot of it.”_

John just stares at him, gobsmacked. “So you’re asking me to do that to you again, even though you nearly tapped out on me?”

Sherlock purses his lips, and takes a deliberate beat before he speaks. “I’d like to do it outside of a session. When I haven’t already come a few times, and when we haven’t already had intercourse. Just as its own thing. We could work up to it, experiment a bit. Take it slowly. Figure it out.”

John shakes his head reluctantly. “I don’t know, Sherlock. Knowing you were uncomfortable with it at _any_ point--”

“But John, don’t you _see,_ that’s what I want! I _want_ to be uncomfortable, and I want you to guide me through it, I want us to work together until I can take it and enjoy it and be proud of how far I’ve let you push me! Isn’t that what all of this _is,_ at the heart of it?”

John sighs. He’s still not sure about any of this. Sherlock’s not wrong, but this is all leaving John feeling distinctly unsettled. “Let me think it over, yeah? I’m not ready to agree to anything right now. But I’ll think it over, and we’ll circle back to it. Deal?”

Sherlock doesn’t even pout, much to John’s surprise. “Deal.” He raises his teacup, and John joins him in a mock toast.

For a while, they sit in silence, gazing into the fire. Suddenly, John starts. “Oh! I’ve been meaning to ask you but I kept forgetting… How the hell _did_ you get into Hassan’s safe?”

Sherlock’s eyes light up as he sits up straight, preparing to dazzle John with his brilliance. John grins before he even starts talking.

“The brand of safe in Hassan’s office is known for being hard to dismantle, but it also infamously only requires a four-digit code. It was obvious from the oily residue left from human fingertips on the front of the keypad that only two numbers on the safe were used regularly; the zero and the one. A binary pincode, then, easy enough. The oil was distributed evenly between the two numbers, meaning that the code would contain two zeros and two ones. The only question was, in what combination?” He pauses for dramatic effect.

John placates him. “So… what was it?”

“When Hassan had me bent over his desk, I was staring straight at his calendar. There was nothing written on it in Hassan’s writing, and it was still turned open to January, despite the fact it’s now March. An unused gift, then, but from whom? Luckily the giver had made it obvious: His mother, whom had written her own birthday into it, the only entry on the entire page--”

“January 10th.” 

Sherlock gives him a wink. “Precisely.”

“Bloody brilliant.”

Sherlock shrugs. “Simple, really.”

John rises to his feet. “Mmm, no, not buying it. It was a deduction of pure, unadulterated genius, and I’m afraid I’ve no choice but to escort you to the bedroom and immediately demonstrate just how _unbelievably_ impressed I am with your mental prowess.” 

He extends his hand in Sherlock’s direction, but Sherlock gives him a withering glance. “Hate to disappoint you, John, but there’s absolutely no way I’m ready for one of your _demonstrations_ just yet. Today’s the first day I’ve been able to sit down properly, and I’ve realised I’m actually rather fond of it.”

“Must I remind you that I have a _delightfully diverse_ arsenal of ways to show you just how very impressed I am? I could tell you all about it, but I feel perhaps my mouth could be put to better use…”

Sherlock takes his hand and rises coyly to his feet, and John drags him towards the bedroom, grinning like a fool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beautiful and wildly intelligent readers, I need HELP! I’m trying to figure out how to extract Chapter 3 from the Fantasy installment (the Rugby-themed one) and insert it into the series as a stand-alone installment. I’ve realised that events that take place in that chapter are important to the narrative as a whole, and chronologically, it needs to be placed between the current “Absolution” and “Advent” installments. Is there a way to do this? Help a luddite out!
> 
> In the same vein: The experimentation with double-penetration occurs in the Rugby chapter of “Fantasy,” which is intended to take place before “Possession.” John tries it out on Sherlock during a regular sexual encounter, so it’s not like he springs it on him blindly during a session; they’ve toyed with a version of it before, and Sherlock consented to it.
> 
> And last but not least: For the more discerning readers out there, no, nipple clamps should not be left on for a prolonged period of time. I imagine Sherlock did his research before purchasing them, and therefore wore them during the sting, removed them, and then put them back on before entering the flat.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed this first bit! Please note, for the faint of heart: the next two chapters are going to be a bit more extreme in terms of the rough sex, so if that's not your jam, you may want to stop reading here.
> 
> Please leave questions & comments! Always lovely to hear from you!


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